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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29952459">Little Red Riding Hood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>404 Ben Solo Not Found, 404 Error Rey Not Found, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage, Author wishes they could rearrange tags, Ben Solo calls Rey his 'little wife' a lot, Ben Solo complicit, Ben Solo is Not Nice, Ben Solo is surprisingly vocal, Breeding, Breeding Kink, By Palpatine, Confinement, Corruption, Dark, Dark fic, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Delusions, Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Dirty Talk, Discussion of fertility issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Due to all the filthy smut I have written, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, Eventually Extremely Obsessively Devoted Reylo, Experienced Ben Solo, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gaslighting, Gaslighting as an Extreme Sport, Grooming, Is it marriage kink if they're already married, Land of the 'little wife' supremacy, Longer than I had planned, Manipulative Sheev Palpatine, Mental Breakdown, Mental Institutions, Mind the Tags, More of a slow burn than I had planned, My apologies for not adding these tags before, No Pregnancy, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-consensual contraception, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Kylo Ren, Obsessive Rey (Star Wars), Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Palpatine is a fucking creep, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Protective Ben Solo, Psychological Trauma, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reminder the whole thing is exceeding non-consensual, Restraints, Rey is 17 when they meet but nothing happens until she's 18, Rough Sex, Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy, Smut and Filth, Somnophilia, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, This is all exceeding non-consensual anyway, Unhealthy HEA, Vaginal Sex, Virgin Rey (Star Wars), anyway, blindfolded sex, marriage kink, not that it matters, predatory behaviour, we're soulmates you just don't know it yet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:55:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29952459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rey - no last name - is found, in shock, standing in a massive industrial warehouse as it burns around her. Doctors are unable to learn much about her, other than that she doesn't get out very often and that she's in great physical shape. She apparently has a grandfather, but she's interested in finding out only one thing: </p><p>'When is the Huntsman coming to get me? Is he here, yet?'</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dopheld Mitaka &amp; Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Sheev Palpatine &amp; Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Sheev Palpatine &amp; Rey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Reylo Marriage Kink Collection, anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Cottage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm updating the tags as I go, and for full disclosure, I added the following tags in homage to one of my favourite dark fics, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554175">'creep' by </a><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/amybeegood/pseuds/amybeegood">amybegood</a>, hopefully that's okay. Reading 'creep' is one of the main reasons I felt comfortable exploring this world. </p><p>'we're soulmates, you just don't know it yet'<br/>'gaslighting as an extreme sport'</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eighteen days. It had been eighteen days and they still couldn’t get the girl to talk.</p><p>Honestly, Dr. Dopheld Mitaka had given up expecting any progress with this girl. Even given her circumstances, he had secretly come to the conclusion that she would either decide to talk or not, and nothing they did would make a lick of difference. There was one exception to this assessment, and one exception only. Only one topic that ever provoked her to come out of her shell.</p><p>‘Is he here, yet?’</p><p>So maybe they’d try a new tack today.</p><p>‘Is who here, yet, Rey?’</p><p>One of the few things they’d been able to get out of her – Rey, her name. No last name, just Rey. They thought she was about twenty, maybe younger, it was hard to tell, especially since her temperament fluctuated so quickly, making her seem younger at times and older, more mature, at others. Tall, but slight with naturally pale skin that Dr. Mitaka thinks might tan easily, she's the picture of health. He thinks she might normally have freckles, though it was hard to tell. More and more, he wondered how often she’d seen the sun. There was a hint of freckle there – just peeking out, and he thought she would look completely different, had she been free to leave the house more than a few times in her short life. From what little she’d said, he doubted that that was the case.</p><p>‘The Huntsman. He’s coming. Is he here, yet?’</p><p>Yes, early twenties, maybe, though she looked younger, slight throughout, with slender, powerful legs and ass and with a well-defined, toned frame. Her dainty features, even and symmetrical, and her skin, clear and bright despite the fact that it hadn’t seen much sun, showed the visage of a healthy, attractive, beautiful even, young woman. There’s no reason for her mental issues, either, she hadn't been hit on the head or lost consciousness at any time. She hadn’t been injured during the fire or the process of getting her out of the building, at least according to the firefighters and the EMTs. The only thing they said was that it was weird how she hadn’t tried to save herself, hadn’t even tried to walk out of the building for that matter. Simply had stood there, waiting, for someone to take her out.</p><p>Like she’d no idea of what she needed to do.</p><p>She hadn’t fought them, simply stood there as they yelled at her to evacuate. Shock, they’d assumed, the fire captain had told him, had been responsible for the unnatural calm that the young woman had displayed. The firefighter yelling at her had been so disturbed by the way Rey had stood in the midst of the raging fire that, after a split second, she’d simply picked her up and carried her out. There she’d stood, for hours, as the firefighters had tried to put out the fire at the warehouse in which she’d been found. She hadn’t said a single word since, except to ask when ‘the Huntsman’ was coming for her. Most days she asked for ‘Her Huntsman’ as she awoke, frowning, slightly disbelieving after she'd been informed he'd yet to arrive.</p><p>She was never pleased when told he wasn't there, though seemingly she remained convinced that he would soon join her. She'd told one of the orderlies that she was good at waiting, particularly for the Huntsman, though she was not pleased by how he was taking his sweet-ass time.</p><p>‘Did he tell you when he was coming, Rey? The Huntsman?’ Mitaka asks now, thinking to get her to open up by using a discussion of the only topic in which his young patient had shown any interest.</p><p>She crinkled her nose as she thought and then surprised the hell out of Mitaka, laughing, her youth showing once again.</p><p>‘He doesn’t need to tell me, silly. He comes when it’s time. He knows,’ she ponders, this time a frown appearing on her forehead. ‘Is he here? It’s time, so he should be here. He’s not here yet, is he?’</p><p>And suddenly she’s up, looking around, as if searching, looking behind each crook and cranny of the room before turning to Mitaka in accusation as if he's hiding her quarry in his pocket like he would a sweet from a young child.</p><p>‘You’re not keeping me from him, are you? He wouldn’t like that. He wouldn’t like that at all and I don’t like it when he’s angry.’</p><p>‘No, Rey,’ Mitaka soothes, worried. ‘We wouldn’t keep him from you.’</p><p>She’s never been this agitated since she’s been here. Normally, she’s the most docile of patients. She sleeps when she’s told to, eats when she’s told to, takes the pills they tell her to, showers when she’s told to, goes to the bathroom three times a day, like clockwork, and spends the remainder of the day with her nose pressed against the glass, waiting for the arrival of her mysterious Huntsman. Sometimes, when they force her to move back from the window, she gets a bit edgy, but nothing quite like this. The orderlies describe her as calm, sweet and funny for the most part, even-tempered and easily led to smile. They've pointed out, though, that she doesn't really engage, with either the staff or her fellow patients, not willingly, not unless she has to. For the most part, she just waits patiently, the nerves showing only in the way she can never quite sit still, moving to check the window more often than not. Obviously well-educated given her speech and manners, she shows little interest in the books and puzzles freely available in the common room, though, simply holding herself apart.</p><p>‘Good, good,’ she says, apparently reassured that Mitaka's assurance that he's not hiding her away from her prey. She’s still edgy, but she’s moving around less, standing quietly instead at the back of her chair, holding onto the back of the frame, though she’s not sitting back into it.</p><p>‘I told you, it’s not good if he’s angry. I need to avoid that. And you wouldn’t like it either.’</p><p>‘Does he get angry at you often, Rey?’</p><p>There hadn’t been any marks on her that might suggest domestic abuse when they'd examined her when she’d arrived here, no bruises or indications of previously broken bones. No burn marks or scars. She doesn't flinch from the orderlies on the rare occasions when they tough her, though it is clear that she doesn't enjoy being touched, prefers apparently, to maintain a distance, however small, between herself and others. It's as if she subconsciously has projected the smallest of bubbles around her, preventing her from being touched when she doesn't want to be touched. Physically, though, she's strong, healthy, young. In fact, other than the smoke inhalation she'd suffered from, there hadn’t been a single thing wrong with her. If anything, she was in aggressively good health, physically toned and strong, and from her reaction to the hospital food, used to eating nutritious, well-balanced meals - even if she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them what her favourite foods were.</p><p>(She’d looked at them quizzically when they’d asked her that, though she hadn’t responded. Looked at the orderly like either she couldn’t remember the names for the foods she liked or that she couldn’t remember that there were foods she preferred over others. Simply ate what was put in front of her, clearing her plate without being prompted, the only indication she might dislike a flavour or enjoy a bite the slightest wrinkling of her brow. Food is food, she seemed to say. It is fuel and I eat it.)</p><p>‘Oh, no, he’s never angry at me, although, you know,’ she winked suddenly, saucy with it, and Mitaka stares, ‘sometimes we have to pretend. No, no, but he gets hurt when he gets angry – grandfather says it’s a sign of poor discipline – and I don’t like it. Sometimes, too, his hands get cut, and we don’t like that. We don’t like it when it means we have to make adjustments.’</p><p>There was a lot to unpack here, and at the same time Mitaka didn’t want to shut her down, so he waits, as she looks at her hands, clenched into little fists, before she un-fists one and traces her fingers over the imaginary cuts and bruises she apparently sees there. Watches as she shakes her head and regains her seat, though she keeps her eyes glued to the window.</p><p>‘No, no, we don’t like having to make adjustments. Don’t like it when other people get involved in what we want.’</p><p>She smirks again as she tilts her head in thought and it chills his soul, the way it hints at the feral menace hidden behind that small smile.</p><p>Mitaka forgets, sometimes, when he doesn't pay attention for a fraction of a second, how ill this young woman is. And then she flashes a hint of something in her hazel eyes, something dark and deadly flits through, and he remembers.</p><p>During the process of Rey's intake, he'd spent a fair amount of time speaking with the first responders, the doctors at the hospital that had first treated her and the orderlies who were responsible for her care. Officials had also put him through to the fire captain who'd led the attempts to save the warehouse where she'd been found. He'd sought the fire captain out to understand something of Rey's surroundings, something of her living arrangements, and had listened with concern and fascination to their debrief. The information she'd given him had been - disturbing. The warehouse they'd found Rey, a massive building out on the outskirts of the city, had had aspects that would be unusual for any building. The security on the old building had been top-notch and though it appeared decrepit on the outside, it had been recently and thoroughly renovated on the inside, not a single part of the rabbit warren that had made up its interior left untouched. Its ownership had been difficult to pin down, though, the deed having been run through so many shell companies that determining just what Rey's role had been there, who she was or how she was related to the other residents of the facility, had been nearly impossible.</p><p>More disturbing were the living quarters the firefighters had found hidden in the very back of the building. Taking up the majority of the second floor, the entrance hidden behind several false panels and multiple aspects of security, it had apparently been unlike anything the firefighters had ever seen. It boasted a massive, industrial-grade kitchen, several living areas and a half-dozen self-enclosed residential suites with individual living spaces and bathrooms of their own. Most disturbing of all, not all the suites locked from the inside and more than one locked from the outside. The only access to the outside world, other than the main, hidden entrance with the multiple levels of security, had been what they thought was a rooftop deck, which had once perhaps held some sort of rooftop garden, one with multiple vegetable and flower beds, a gazebo and a large, covered entrance. Struck by a moment of genius, Mitaka had looked on the archive of google maps and had noted how, somehow, this rooftop garden had somehow failed to show up on pictures of the area. All that anyone would have seen, looking at the area on the mapping website would have been a boring, traditional, industrial roof. </p><p>He can't imagine how much it would have cost to have that sort of hacking done, let alone the reasoning behind it. </p><p>From what they could tell, the entire facility had been well-appointed before the fire had ripped through it, at least in materials terms. It would have clearly taken several people to maintain it, but the only person they'd found alive on the premise had been Rey, her hair and make-up exquisitely done despite the soot on her face and dressed in a formal evening gown more suited to the era of Mitaka's grandparents than to a woman her age. Despite their search of the building, expedited though it had been due to the fire ripping through the premise, the firefighters hadn't found anyone else to rescue and Rey had failed to respond to their questions as to other potential inhabitants.  </p><p>‘We won’t have to worry about that anymore, though,' Rey had continued, again with that terrible smile of enjoyment. Of anticipation. 'It’s time. He knows it’s time, and no, we won’t have to worry about adjustments this time. I'm ready for my prize. Is he here, yet, my Huntsman?’</p><p>She would never tell him what that meant, that <em>it was time</em>, any more than she would tell him the details, assuming she knew, of where exactly the Huntsman went, how long he was normally gone or who, if anyone, she saw while he was gone. Only that <em>he</em> would know, when it was time, and come to her.</p><p>‘Rey-'</p><p>Mitaka wasn't sure if it was a relief that the examination of the body of the elderly man they'd found in the hidden living area - badly burned and without any identification - showed he'd apparently been dead long before the fire started. When they'd asked Rey who the old man had been, she'd simply stared at them blankly and had shown absolutely no interest in the topic. No one could tell whether that meant she didn't know who he was or whether she didn't care he was dead.</p><p>‘Maybe I should go outside,' she says suddenly, this small, feral girl. 'Maybe it’ll be easier for him to find me there. Yes. Yes, that’s what I should do.’</p><p>She rises again with renewed purpose, walks by his chair like Mitaka's not even there. It’s only when she reaches the door that she realizes that it’s locked from the outside. That she won't be able to leave. And, if Mitaka weren’t one hundred percent sure that there were people watching them, at this very moment, preparing to intervene, the growl that emanates from her throat in that moment would have struck fear into his heart. Even then, he has to admit that it does. She sounds feral, wild, and he sees it again, that cold, feral determination to get what she wants. What she's claimed. What's she's owed. Which, apparently, is this Huntsman.</p><p>He hears it again, the growl of frustration as the door won’t open for her and suddenly she’s whirling towards him, stalking towards his chair even as he lurches out of it, his heart at his throat. And if he wasn’t afraid before, he is now, as she prowls towards him with the speed and grace of a panther sighting her prey, her feral instincts having clearly made the connection that he was her ticket out of this room. Her ticket out into the open, out into the wild, where she could find her lost companion.</p><p>The sounds she makes as the orderlies burst in and the screams ripping out of her throat as they hold her down and before they sedate her almost don’t sound human and he releases a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. Later, as he sits in his office, safe and alone, Rey safely secured in her room, sleeping, looking like an avenging angel at rest, his hands still shake as he pours himself yet another glass of water to slake his dry throat. </p><p>Altogether, it's a disturbing consultation and that's before the Huntsman shows up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Girl</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A girl</em>
</p><p>Once upon a time, there lived a small, gentle, pretty girl, and the girl was a princess, and the princess’s name was Rey.</p><p>She lived a quiet life, a charmed one, did Rey, happy and safe and cared for, her grandfather going above and beyond as always to make sure she had everything she could need to be the best she could be. They lived alone, the two of them, other than their faithful familiar servants, in a rambling old palace, surrounded by everything they could need. When she was younger, Rey would play in the long, softly-lit aisles of the old, sturdy building, running through the passageways carved through the stacks and stacks of boxes, playing with imaginary friends and learning new things. It had always been just the two of them, her and her grandfather, as far back as she could remember.</p><p>Though there were times when she woke, scared, with images and memories of a woman with soft hair tickling her face or a man, younger than her grandfather but with the same shape of eyes as he, swinging her through the air. Her grandfather always told her the next morning when she wasn’t sure why she’d been crying that she must be remembering her parents, his son and daughter-in-law, and he looked a little like she thought sad must look like when he told her that, so she tried not to mention it again. As she grew, she made sure not to mention other things, either. About how it was just the two of them. Made sure not to ask why, not to ask how or when they had died. Didn’t ask, anymore, to see the old black-and-white picture of the older, distinguished woman with the sad eyes that he kept secure, locked up in his personal safe in his office.</p><p>Instead, she kept her dreams, and her nightmares, to herself. He didn’t like to be disturbed, did her grandfather, particularly in the middle of the night, so she’d long ago learned to stuff her fist in her mouth as she woke screaming and crying from these dreams. Rather, she stuffed those memories down deep inside as she stuffed her small fist in her mouth and tried not to think of them again, these parents of hers he spoke off so reluctantly.</p><p>Told herself that these questions must have made him sad – it only made sense – since he’d hidden their pictures away and changed the subject after she’d told him of the scary dreams of his small grandchild. She was a happy girl, overall, our Rey, and she liked it when her grandfather was happy, too, so she tried not to think of those dreams, and she tried to think only of him and of her and of making him proud.</p><p>It was difficult, sometimes, as she grew, and she had to make changes, as her life changed, particularly after the Lady Phasma came into her life. Her grandfather told her, when he introduced her to her new teacher, taller than any giant Rey had ever heard of and with a head of striking blond hair, that the Lady Phasma was one of the best instructors in the land and that she would teach Rey everything she could ever need to know in the future he had planned out for her. He told her that she if listened to the Lady Phasma and did her best to become as much as a lady as the woman standing before her, she would make him very proud. And so she tried.</p><p>She had always liked to make her Grandfather proud.</p><p>The lessons that Lady Phasma drilled into her were hard, though not as hard as not having the time she’d once had, to explore behind all the boxes in her grandfather’s castle and run through the small garden that overlooked the city. She missed that, spending most of the day in her garden. Grandfather had never let her play in the sun, but as long as she stayed safe underneath the overhang, she’d always been allowed to sit outside and watch the tiny creatures that lived and played in the green plants that made the outside garden a paradise.</p><p>Once the Lady Phasma arrived though, Rey's time was increasingly taken up with seemed like never-ending lessons. So many lessons. It wasn’t the learning that Rey minded – she liked learning – and she loved Phasma’s lessons on how things worked, liked to take things apart and put things back together whenever she could. She even loved all the homework that the Lady Phasma gave her – loved reading all the big, dusty books that the Lady Phasma insisted were necessary for a classical education. Loved all the math and the science, loved to practice on the piano the Lady Phasma had insisted be installed despite her grandfather’s objections over the noise Rey made as she first learned the graceful art.</p><p>No, she liked those lessons. It was everything else that dragged at her feet as she woke every morning, stuffed her feet into her indoor shoes and headed to the schoolroom. The comportment lessons and the protocol lessons and the etiquette lessons and the memorization of the details of the Elite families of which she and her grandfather made a part. Not to mention all the lessons on the proper posture for a lady of her station. <em>A lady doesn’t speak unless spoken to. </em>Of all the lessons, Rey hated the lessons on posture the most. <em>A lady doesn’t tap her toe. </em>Walking around for what felt like days with an overly large encyclopedia on her head - always 'C' and never 'XYZ'. <em>A lady doesn’t chew with her mouth open. </em>Learning to hold herself straight enough so that she could breathe in the corsets that Phasma bought for her, corsets that grew tighter by the day. Learning to deal with the skirts that had replaced the leggins of her childhood and which almost swept the floor, getting in her way, annoying her. Just as with the constant reminders she could never fully escape. Sit straighter. Hold your body this way; sit with your legs crossed that way. <em>A lady doesn’t raise her eyes unless addressed. </em>Sit quieter. <em>A lady doesn’t dance unless given permission. </em>Be quieter. <em>A lady doesn’t ask questions.</em></p><p>Think quieter. <em>A lady doesn't speak unless spoken to.</em> Eat quieter. <em>A lady doesn’t rush her food. </em>Make sure you always wear your hat even if you don’t go in the sun – a lady’s nature is reflected in the purity of her complexion. <em>A lady is lovely. </em></p><p>It was hard, so very, very hard, to remember it all when Rey wanted to laugh and play and go out into the fresh air. Fresh air that the Lady Phasma seemed to think was as contaminated as her Grandfather insisted the city she could see from a distance was. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when Lady Phasma had punished her one too many times and Rey had been forbidden as a result to do the one thing she wanted to do – go outside to the garden to watch her little creatures as they frolicked in the sun – she lost the temper the grandfather continued worried of and snapped back at her instructor and her continual remainders of all the ways Rey continued to fail.</p><p><em>Why should I worry about being a lady?</em> she'd snarl. <em>It’s not like there’s anyone here besides you and grandfather, anyway. And he liked me fine before you got here. </em></p><p>She’d smile then, the Lady Phasma, smile at her charge - <em>A lady smiles </em>- in a way that had made Rey want to cry and reminded her softly, oh so softly, that it was her grandfather who, in fact, had brought her into Rey’s life. <em>A lady laughs quietly if she laughs at all. </em>It is he who insists she teaches Rey all of this, he who insists that she reach into that stubborn skull of Rey's and mould her into a young lady of which her grandfather could be proud. <em>A lady is dainty. </em>She had no mother to teach her, the Lady Phasma reminded her, no mother to teach her of her place in all of this. <em>A lady listens. </em>She needed a teacher, and for that her grandfather, wise and generous, had brought in the best, most loyal teacher to be found, one who knew her family, knew her situation. <em>A lady is obedient. </em>Was able to gain her grandfather’s confidence and share his goals in shaping his granddaughter’s future.</p><p>
  <em>A lady is polite and a lady is quiet.</em>
</p><p><em>As you know, Rey,</em> Phasma reminded her, <em>you’re getting older. Yes, the world outside is too dangerous for you to go out; your grandfather is wise to keep it from you. The decadent city is no place for you, but you’ll always be kept safe, secure and protected here, in your grandfather’s keep. But that doesn’t mean things won’t change. You’re twelve now, you’re almost a young woman.</em></p><p>
  <em>You won’t always be alone.</em>
</p><p>And Rey wondered, then, from time, when her Grandfather looked at her in the midst of the lessons she took with him, what he was thinking. Whether he worried about whether she would always be alone.</p><p>It was true, her grandfather did worry about her, did his best to make sure everything was the best for her. As much as she hated the protocol lessons the Lady Phasma insisted on, she did her best, to learn, to do him proud. She preferred, though, the lessons she took with him, Grandfather, in the privacy of his library, their special family place. While the Lady Phasma taught her decorum and manners and language, her grandfather taught her the important lessons, she thought often, reflecting on the role of her tutors.</p><p>He taught her the things she <em>needed</em> to know.</p><p>About family. About history. About what it meant to be one of their family.</p><p>He didn’t think much of modern teaching, he told her, of teaching people to think in ways not suited to their place, and ideally he would not need to teach her the same ways he had taught his son, her father. But since he was gone, his son, her father, and since it was just the two of them, her and him, and since she needed to know what was his, he taught her the things of which the Lady Phasma was unavoidable unable, limited as she was to her place in the world.</p><p>So he taught Rey instead, in the late afternoons before dinner, after he’d had his rest and was at his freshest. He taught her maths and financial accounts and how to ensure that all the family holdings were well protected and secure. Taught her how to track their investments, balance their books and categorize their assets in ways meant to best protect them and allow them to grow. Tax law may be boring, he told her, but sometimes sacrifice is necessary. It was best to know how to make it work in their favour. The more he taught her, the more he found the value in ensuring she was prepared for the future, financially. Not only to protect their financial holdings but increasingly, he came to see, as a means of enhancing her value to her future role as the lady of the estate that he would leave to the trust of the husband he planned on securing for her.</p><p>He taught her other things as well – how to plan and strategize and think – about their goals, about the needs of their clan. Showed her how to read the thoughts of those around them through the shift in their faces and the pose of their bodies. Included her, discreetly, from where she watches from outside of the frame, in the negotiations he held by video on his computer. Showed her, sometimes, the files he’d built up, over the years on those in his social circle who might yet be of use. Of his enemies, of his allies. Of the families, sometimes going back generations, who he kept an eye on, as would any prudent sovereign concerned with his domain.</p><p>
  <em>It's always best, granddaughter, to keep an eye on your enemies. Keep both eyes on your allies.</em>
</p><p>(There was a picture she’d caught a glimpse of once, shortly after she turned twelve  – of an older boy, maybe a teenager, maybe older, it was hard to tell, whose mop of jet-black hair barely covered his prominent ears and whose open grin protruded from his face as he stood next to another man, one who looked to her young eyes almost as old as her grandfather -  which made her wonder about his objectives for this information. The folder was labelled simply: <em>Potential</em>.)</p><p>The lessons came with apologies, at times. She knew her grandfather worried whether she, a mere girl, even one who was his granddaughter, would be able to deal with the demands he placed upon her. She knew he felt guilty that he had to place the burden on her slight shoulders; she knew he felt guilty for failing to secure a grandson to assume the burden he was passing on to her. She wouldn’t always need to worry her pretty little head about such things, he assured her when he felt especially conflicted about her role. Once she was married, she could tend to those trivialities natural to her biological inclinations.</p><p>She tried to assure him, of her willingness, eagerness, really, to learn these things, to engage with him in ways that stretched her brain, but he only smiled and told her he appreciated his granddaughter’s wish to reassure an old man. Soon, he promised, soon when she was older and settled as he had planned, she would be free to focus on her arts and the plants he knew she preferred. Wouldn’t always be stuck inside in musty rooms far from the green. Provided she took care to protect her skin from the damaging rays and maintain the ivory skin of her station, he had no problem with her little hobbies and he doubted her future spouse would either, though a wife must always cleave to her husband and his preferences. He intended to provide her with an understanding master, though, and as long as she was obedient to his direction and fulfilled her role as given to her by both himself and her husband, he foresaw little problem.</p><p>She should always be prepared, though, to protect what was his, protect his family estate for her sons, his ultimate legacy, and so it fell to him, her grandfather, to teach her things best left to men. Of course, he told her, it is only because she was his granddaughter that he felt able to pass these lessons onto her. His genes were strong in her, he told her, she had inherited his strength, his power, and so, although it was not his preference, he was confident that she was unlike others of the weaker sex. Thanks to his training and thanks to the strength she'd inherited from him that flowed through her veins, she would be able to handle these responsibilities, would prove herself worthy of learning these things best left to men.</p><p>So happy and proud in that moment that she glowed, Rey had nodded quietly in appreciation and promised herself that she would never do anything to mitigate her grandfather’s incredible trust in her. Promised herself that she would do all she could to redouble her efforts, even if it meant that she would have to commit to learning from the Lady Phasma all the lady-like accomplishments her grandfather so clearly valued. </p><p>A little sponge, she sought to be, to soak up the lessons graciously and generously given by both her tutors. And with such a willing and eager tutor, she learned well.</p><p>The Lady Phasma taught her how to manage a household, servants, décor, entertainment, the grace and deference of a hostess. Fashion appropriate to her station and her family’s demure traditions. She taught her how to ornament herself for the pleasure of those around her, how to pitch her voice and her approach in ways meant to please. Taught her the arts appropriate to her station as well; music, embroidery, appropriate dances (the waltz), clever yet non-controversial conversation. Taught her to hone the graces she'd need to fulfill all the roles she'd have to ascend to. Taught her how to act in the ways prized by men like her grandfather. How to soothe, how to settle a room, to tame the wildness of a husband left too long in the wild outside of their regime.</p><p>Valuable lessons she soon learned, though she as yet preferred those she took in the late afternoon.</p><p>Her grandfather taught her of the family legacy, of the role they’d played, of what they’d earned, of what they kept. Taught her international relations, taught her the history of those outside the realm even. He taught her the history of the realm and their place in it, taught her of their regime and the decadence of the world that lay around them, of the city whose shape she could see just beyond their walls. Most of all, though, the lessons were about family. As he took out the picture of her grandmother that she almost never saw out from his safe and placed it carefully on his desk. Placed it in a prominent position where they could look at it and contemplate the sacrifices made for the family. For that was the ultimate loyalty, he would remind her, showing again and again where his loyalties lay. Where hers should be as well. Always family. <em>Family Fidelis.</em> It was his duty and his joy, he told her, to teach her how they’d struggled to challenge the limitations of what the world outside insisted upon.</p><p>History.</p><p>Duty.</p><p>Obligation.</p><p>Consideration to the need to ensure the greater good of the family.</p><p>Obedience.</p><p>
  <em>Familia Supra Omnia</em>
</p><p>Family Above All.</p><p>And so even as pretty, smart, obedient little princess Rey, in her vast sprawling castle off on the outskirts of that terrible city she only ever saw from a distance, grew tall and strong and smart, those around her ensured she learned her lessons well.</p><p>And for her obedience, and for her diligence, to her lessons, both in and out of the classroom, Rey eventually found there was a suitable reward.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A reminder that this is a Dark Fairy Tale, with the emphasis on Dark. This will become increasingly apparent starting next Sunday. See you then!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. An Alliance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>At long last, the Huntsman has arrived.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>An alliance</em>
</p><p>And for her obedience and for her diligent approach to her lessons, both in and out of the classroom, Rey soon found there was a suitable reward.</p><p>Walking into the dining room one evening, hair up and skirts sweeping across the floor - only appropriate, naturally, for a young woman of her age and station -  she found a young man, older than she but close to her age and dark as she was fair, broad where she was dainty, sitting opposite her grandfather. Both men rise as she enters – the grace of their manners clearly apparent – and she hides the blush she feels rising in her chest under her gown, grateful for the grace of her training.</p><p>For the Lady Phasma is correct about one thing; she and her grandfather aren’t always alone.</p><p>To be fair, that <em>had</em> always been true. Even before she’d come to live with them, she'd known that Grandfather had had guests from time to time. After she'd come to live with him, it had always been expected that she be introduced to them and as soon as she'd settled in, it had been expected that she helps her grandfather entertain them. She'd joined them for dinner mainly, during which Rey was expected to be on her best behaviour, sit pretty and still over dinner and politely spoon her soup and pretend to listen to the conversation. It all went over her head at first, all this adult talk, and she was always grateful after the final part of the meal was served – dessert was usually a mix of raspberry and lemon gelato, her favourite – and she was dismissed to go play with her dolls. (Sometimes, if it were early enough when she finished her duties, she would find a way to sneak outside and watch the stars through the slats of the covering she was careful never to proceed beyond.)</p><p>They were mainly nice to her, these guests of her grandfather, provided they noticed her at all beyond a polite acknowledgment. For the most part when she was younger, they’d patted her on the head, said hello and then let her be. Sometimes Grandfather would quiz her at the table – proud to show off how much she’d learned, how <em>quick</em> she was, she thought – but those moments were few. Sometimes she’d look at him, waiting, and he’d indulge her, quizzing her and smiling, and she’d feel as though she had accomplished <em>something</em>. She made him laugh, once, or as much as one could make Grandfather laugh, she supposed, and that moment lived in her heart for a long, long time.</p><p>She got a little older, though, and after she’d turned twelve, these dinners proved a little more challenging, though that was all to be expected, her grandfather explained as her lessons progressed.</p><p>Increasingly, she was expected to stay and participate, as befitted her station and her gender, on the topics that the visitors and her grandfather discussed. For the most part, she soon found that the expectation was to listen and learn and that this, too, was part of her training. Beyond that, as her grandfather stressed how she could gather many valuable insights from the conversations of her elders, the Lady Phasma stressed that these were valuable learning exercises as well, for her future role as wife and helpmate once she was married. So, while she sat quietly and gathered what insights she could from the learned discussion taking part in front of her, she and the Lady Phasma practiced learning all the skills that throwing these dinners entailed. Practiced planning for these visits and these dinner, practiced smoothing the waters when the discussion wandered into uncomfortable waters, practiced how to provide a gentle balance to sand off the edges of her grandfather’s temper, practiced how to act as an ornament benefiting her role as representative of her house. </p><p>Practiced how to make her grandfather proud as he showed off his lovely, bright and obedient legacy grandchild.</p><p>A young lady now, tall and slim like a willow, pretty and proud of it, she had increasingly honed her skills with her tutor’s help.</p><p>Fashion was the easiest, Rey discovered. She delighted in the colours and the textures of the fabrics that were brought for her perusal, gloried in the lines and cuts of the dresses that came back from the skilled seamstresses that were delivered. She might have been tempted by some more daring choices – skirts that might not have swept the floor or lines that honed closer to her body - but luckily she had the Lady Phasma to direct her in regards to what was best. She was well aware of the limitations of her figure, as she grew, her height failing to make up for the limitations of her bust and the unfortunate overemphasis of her behind, but there were ways to hide those flaws, she learned. The Lady Phasma had been ever so helpful, both in teaching her how her body failed in living up to the beauty she’d might once have aspired to, especially in regards to the disappointment that was her breasts, and in helping her learn how to make the most of the figure she’d been given. Helped her choose those cuts which – modestly – emphasized her bust and downplayed the generosity of her rear.</p><p>Learning how to make the most of her face through the skillful application of make-up was more difficult, though. She had to learn to accept and value the foundation and powder meant to further emphasize her pale skin, and while she might have been more adventurous in her choice of enhancement for her eyes and cheeks and lips, might have choosen to play a little with the colours and shapes of her features and all the ways make-up could accent them, a lady was discreet, after all. So she remembered how to use the make-up to enhance her class, and honed to her station with gentle pinks and roses and with but a smudge of mascara.</p><p>Hair was the most difficult, mainly due to the fact that the updos appropriate for these dinners were extremely trying. She loved the feeling of her hair free around her face and her skull ached at the end of the night, but soon she was able to train herself to barely feel the constriction of the weight of her hair on her temples. She might never enjoy the feeling of the pins and her hair tugging at her scalp, though she did love the grown-up feel that resulted, loved how the cool air hit the back of her neck and loved the feeling of freedom that resulted when she let her long chestnut hair - almost to her waist now - down at the end of the night. </p><p>She didn’t miss how grandfather's guests increasingly sent assessing looks at these dinners as she grew older, didn’t miss how they took in every aspect of her face and figure, assessed her physical appearance and social training, and it merely reinforced her determination to act appropriately. The guests no longer mussed up her hair, no longer asked her teasing questions, no longer laughed as she answered their questions with a seriousness and maturing belying her age, but she knew better than to think that meant they weren’t judging her, knew better than to think they weren't judging her grandfather by association.</p><p>There were one, or two, of these guests, whose assessing glances at times made her uncomfortable, as she grew into her teens, guests whose eyes dipped from her gaze, or whose assessing glances lingered too long on her figure, such as there was of it. It made her skin crawl, but she wasn’t alone in noting the way they looked at her as if she was a cow brought to market and her grandfather, always protective, made sure those guests were not among those privileged few reinvited to their private sanctum.</p><p>The young man who seats her solicitously this fine evening is not to be considered in that category. The presence of that young man – Lord Kylo of Ren, to give him his proper title  – she welcomes with an eagerness she cannot hide from either her grandfather or their guest, or, even more crucially, from herself. She’s past seventeen now - the day her Huntsman, as she calls him from that day forward - enters her life, and it’s an exciting time. She's seventeen, going on eighteen, she’s a young woman now, she’s all grown up. It’s the first time, though, as she meets Ben, that she truly knows what it feels like for a woman to ache for a man, the way she aches for him the moment their eyes meet. The way her breath catches and her heart pounds. The way her blush spreads across her fine features and reddens the skin she and the Lady Phasma have spent so much energy ensuring is fair and pale as benefits her class. </p><p>The ultimate gentleman, she soon finds that Ben's manners are both pleasing and respectful. His eyes stay on hers, though they might drift now and then to her lips, she thinks.</p><p>‘Rey,’ her grandfather says, and she sees the careful, assessing way he watches her and the careful, assessing way he watches their guest watch her, and she feels the adrenaline pump through her veins. Feels her heart pound and her blood pump through her veins along with it as she realizes this, this moment, this is when her life will change. This is when she will discouver her true purpose. As she concentrates very, very hard, to take every step to make sure this meeting goes exactly the way she needs it to go.</p><p>‘Rey, please say hello to our guest, Benedict Solo. Lord Ren, my granddaughter.’</p><p>He raises her hand to his lips to christen it with his breath - such a true gentleman - and she dares to look at him directly, watches as his pupils dilate and his eyes darken in reaction to the proximity of her body and the taste of her skin. He’s tall, this young man who might be a decade older than her, might be much less, it’s hard to tell – and he has to lean all the way down to look her in the eye, even with the unfortunate height she’d been cursed with. In her pretty pink kitten heels, she might even come up to the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t seem to mind, really, anything about her, the way he keeps his eyes on her.</p><p>‘<em>Enchanté</em>,’ he responds softly, smiling gently with only a soft curve of his lips, and her heart melts as she graces him with a small curtsey in return.</p><p>‘Lord Ren will be staying with us for a while, Rey, while I work out some business arrangements with his grandfather. I’m sure you can entertain our guest while I am are occupied with Lord Vader. He arrives tomorrow, but I thought Ben might like to come ahead and make your acquaintance given how much time you will be spending together.’</p><p>‘Of course, grandfather,’ she tells him even as she tries to be a lady and not stare at Ben across the table as his dark eyes glow in the candlelight. ‘I’ll be happy to entertain our guest.’</p><p>They are never alone, of course, though the Lady Phasma does let them have more leeway than Rey would have expected, her presence at times so discreet that at times she forgets she’s even there. It’s something that would only have resulted from her tutor’s having received her grandfather’s permission, and Rey can’t help but glow in the knowledge of his approval. He clearly likes Ren, he clearly approves of the blossoming connection between his granddaughter and the grandson of his oldest ally. Anakin Skywalker, Lord Vader, has been a name known to Rey her entire life; his life has been interwoven with her grandfather’s at every level for decades. It’s only right, her grandfather apparently believes, for their grandchildren to form a close connection.</p><p>It’s not a consideration for her, though it is an unlooked blessing.</p><p>She thinks she fell in love with Ben Solo the moment she met him. How could she not? He’s well-bred, polite, a gentleman in every sense of the world, the class of his upbringing a match, she thinks, to her own. He’s gentle with her, deferential at times, always taking a care with her company and her person. He listens – that she notices above all. He’s always listening to her, her thoughts, her views, her interests. She shows him her garden, and in those moments, as she tends to her greenery under the protection of her hat and the sunshade while he watches and makes thoughtful conversation, the Lady Phasma far enough away that they both might forget her existence, Rey thinks she might have found heaven.</p><p>The fact that her suitor – yes, she is bold enough to consider him that – is almost unworldly in his handsomeness is simply the icing on the cake. Tall enough to tower over her, strong enough, she imagines, to carry her, his broad shoulders wide enough to handle all she would need to ask, striking features, skin almost as pale as her own and with hair so black she imagines inky black silk when she looks at it, he is the prince of the fairy tales she’d read as a child.</p><p>Sometimes, late at night, in the privacy of her bed, she imagines what it might look like, those strands of raven on the white of her pillows, how soft they might feel under her fingertips, and blushes at the audacity of her thoughts. She’s not a girl now, though, she reminds herself. She’s seventeen, going on eighteen, after all, and she’s a woman, now. It’s only natural to think these things of a man who might one day be close to her in all ways, surely. It's surely not appropriate to imagine how a man such as he, perhaps even he, might kiss. Surely not inappropriate, after all, to imagine how a man determine to court her might touch her - with her grandfather's approval, of course. Surely it's not inappropriate to imagine how he might take care of her in their marital bed, though she blushes so fiercely at that the thought that she has to concentrate on something else. Surely it's not inappropriate though, given how he's <em>carefully</em> spoken of their future.</p><p>The fact that he seems to find her excessively attractive, even despite her physical flaws, is a blessing she’d never dared hope for. Her eighteenth birthday is rapidly approaching, but though she learns that he’s almost a decade older, it’s as if he’s the second half of her soul. </p><p>It seems as if he might want to stay. Here, with her.</p><p>His grandfather comes and goes, on the visits to her grandfather, stays up late at night in his study. And all the time, Ben stays.</p><p>With her.</p><p>He’s been there over six months when her grandfather summons them both to his study, where she’d spent so many happy hours as a child, to discuss their future.</p><p>Rey thinks she’s never been so happy as her fiancé ghosts a small, soft kiss over her cheekbone as her grandfather watches. She’s never felt as proud as she had, moments before, as he’d slipped an engagement ring, crowned with a large blood-red ruby, clear and sparkly in the low light – a family heirloom, his grandmother’s – on her finger. They smile at her in equal measure, those men who are meant to be her kin, and all is perfect and wonderful and good.  She knows Ben would have proposed even without her grandfather’s suggestion, feels it, <em>senses</em> it, reads it in the way he looks at her, listens to her, follows her with his eyes and his body. Knows their relationship is clearly meant to be something more than this arrangement their grandfathers had negotiated to join together the Palpatine and Skywalker lines.</p><p>She’d always known she would marry the man her grandfather had picked for her, always known it would be when it was most beneficial to the family interests, and her grandfather had promised he ensure it was someone who would be kind to her, his precious legacy. He had actually promised, when they'd first discussed it, when she had been younger, when he had she had been ready, that he would do his best to listen to her preference, and she'd been so grateful for his consideration. She’s even more so know; she’d never imagined it would go this well. Never imagined marrying someone with whom she could feel loved as she’d always felt her grandfather’s love. A man who cares for her, loves her, a man as elegant and polished and gentle and intelligent and as handsome as Ben. Truly, she is blessed.</p><p>She swears, always to obey her future husband in all things from this day moving forward, and they leave her grandfather’s office, as a deep dark part of her thrills as her fiancé looks at her the way a wolf looks at her prey. As she wonders at how his eyes increasingly rove over everything to which he’s now entitled when he thinks she isn’t looking.</p><p>Wonders at the heat it awakens in her. She knows she will soon be the property of the man standing next to her, will soon be Lady Ren in name as well as deed. As the dangerous thrill she thinks has always been hidden inside her moves through her, she smiles, feels it, the feral delight. In the prospect of being owned. In the glory of being known.</p><p>She counts it down, the days until the date of her maturity, the date proscribed for the tall man standing next to her to claim her in the ways she knows he wants, to mark her, wreck her, take her.</p><p>Counts it down, the date until he joins with her, takes her, owns her.</p><p>Counts it down, the date until he possesses her the day ways she knows he wants to, the ways she wants him to.</p><p>Lays in her pretty bedroom in her suite, in the same wing as his though furthest from it, and dreams of taking him, too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>To be clear, no one in this story is interested in a long engagement. I'll see you next week for the wedding. I promise it will be ... interesting.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Bride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I would remind you to review the tags before continuing as many of them apply here. Also, if, after reading, if you feel I've missed any, please let me know and I will add to them.</p><p>If you are comfortable continuing, please join me for the Solo-Palpatine wedding.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A Bride</em>
</p><p>Though her grandfather assures her that given her status she could anything her heart desires, no one is anxious to wait, and they hold the wedding the afternoon of her eighteenth birthday. She spends the morning in the garden before quietly saying goodbye to the Lady Phasma. Now that Rey would be married and would have her husband to guide her, her former governess plans to move to look after some of Grandfather’s overseas interests. (She doesn’t give any specifics and Rey doesn’t ask.)</p><p>When the moment comes, Rey is surprised at the extent of her dismay at losing her tutor – they’d never been particularly close – but perhaps it was simply the result of the nerves and anticipation. Finally, after months and months of waiting, she would embrace her true destiny. After tonight, she would belong to her Huntsman, and she glories in it. Glories in the heat she witnesses in his eyes as he looks at her as he says goodnight the night before her birthday, as he raises her hands to his lips, pressing his plush pink lips gently into her skin, leaving the softest and yet deepest of imprints.</p><p>It whispers in her ear, the voice of anticipation. </p><p>Soon. Soon. Soon.</p><p>Dressed in the vintage Dior gown and lace veil that her grandfather had lent her for the occasion – all icy silk in the palest of whites, the veil so gossamer it is lighter than air, the gown and veil had belonged to her grandmother, he had told her, with what she suspected had to be tears in his eyes – she soon finds herself waiting outside her grandfather’s library, eagerly anticipating the signal to be ushered in. As she hears the Minister’s voice, beckoning her to enter, she turns, hugs the Lady Phasma for the first and last time, and enters. She’d asked her Grandfather for permission to be married outside, under the sunshade that sits near her garden, maybe as a sign of the future she and Ben were building, but he’d explained there were formalities involved that he’d explain later, and she had bowed her head deferentially, trusting as always in his judgment. There would be time to enjoy her time with Ben outside, later.</p><p>The Minister is old and frail, much older and much frailer than her grandfather, and she doesn’t like the way he looks at her as she and Ben hold hands, standing before him, but it’s over in a moment, the formalities. She’ll never have to see him again and he’s done everything she’d needed him to. She’s no longer simply Rey; she’s now officially Aurelia Solo, Lady Ren of the House of Skywalker and Palpatine. This time, it’s her grandfather who ghosts a dry kiss along her cheek, tells her that he’s proud of her, and reminds her of her duty to obey her new husband in all things, even as she would obey him.</p><p>‘By your command, Grandfather,’ she’d responded softly, smiling at him, filled with joy and he'd smiled up at her in approval, pleased as always with her willingness to comply.  </p><p>She can feel the way Ben’s eyes eat her up during dinner, the night of her wedding, can feel the way they drink her in, even as – feeling as light and as free as she’d ever imagined feeling, she sparkles in the light of the approval of the men in her life, her grandfather and husband, her lord. Even she can see how her conversation lifts them all in bubbles of joy, and even without the champagne that she sips cautiously, she can see how they hang on her every word and delight in her light laughter. It’s an auspicious beginning to her married life, the wedding dinner the three of them indulge in, the night of her wedding, and she has never been happier to fulfill her role as the crowning glory of her grandfather’s legacy.</p><p>When her grandfather suggests they gather for a nightcap in his library before they retire for the night, she has a moment of nerves, remembering how Ben’s things have been moved into her suite - she’s no idea what to expect of her marital duties and it worries her that she has no idea of how to please him – but his hand is on hers and his arm is around her waist, so she takes a deep breath and concentrates on enjoying the evening. He's been whispering in her ear all evening, about how lovely she is, how happy he is, how proud of her he is, and she knows he's eager, to have her alone, which, given how eager she is to get <em>him</em> alone, eases her nerves somewhat. Surely, she will find a way to please him, when the time comes. </p><p>His second hand on the small of her back is hot and heavy as it burns through the thin silk of the blue cocktail dress she’d changed into earlier, and the material of the full bodice clings to him a little as he pulls her slightly into his massive chest and her full skirts cling to the material of the pants of his tux. She's wearing kitten heels in matching midnight blue and he towers over her, though she knows he'd do so even should she wear her highest heels. It makes her blush, as she leans into him, thinking of how he overwhelms her, his height, his bulk, his presence; it makes her blush thinking what else he will be touching by the time this night is over, and she smiles up at him, watching as he watches in return, a hint of a slightly feral grin gracing his features in return.</p><p>Her grandfather hands her and Ben a sherry in delicate crystal glasses, ones that appear so tiny in Ben's hand just as she does, as they enter his domain – truly a first as she knows he doesn’t approve of young girls who drink hard spirits, and she knows it representative of her new adult status as a young matron – and the sweet wine is gone almost before she knows it, the approval in his eyes going to her head almost as fast as the wine. She’s careful to sip much more slowly on the second glass her grandfather immediately passes her; she doesn’t want to embarrass herself or him in front of Ben by getting too tipsy. Doesn’t want to embarrass Ben by acting inappropriately. Doesn’t want to waste any moment of the night to come. Wants to remember all of it, every experience, every feeling.</p><p>It’s only as she sits next to her husband that she notices that the cameras that had been used to record her marriage ceremony earlier are still set up around her grandfather’s desk. She shrugs, though, figuring it’s simply that he hadn’t had a moment to summon the staff to remove them as yet. A part of her, a simple, romantic part of the remnant of her girlish self, wonders if she could get a copy of the tape. She’d simply loved the assurance and wolfish possession she’d glimpsed in Ben’s voice as she’d promised to obey him as his new bride and a shiver moves through her again, thinking of it.</p><p><em>Obey</em>, she thinks. Yes. She wants very much to obey him once they go back to her – <em>their</em> suite. She can’t wait to see just how he can make her his own, imprint his mark on her.</p><p>Her grandfather is speaking quietly to Ben now, and while she’d been wool-gathering, she’d lost the thread of the conversation, so she struggles to catch up, smiling in the meantime as she watches them. <em>One’s only granddaughter gets married only once,</em> her grandfather had told her earlier, a smile on lips, one she hadn’t recognized, though she’d thought she’d known them all. She’d laughed then, blaming the shiver that had moved through her at that moment on a poorly placed vent and a thin wedding dress.</p><p>As she feels a similar shiver move through her body again as she looks at the cameras, she blames the wedding night nerves and of having Ben sitting so close to her, the body heat of his thick thighs bleeding into her space, adding to the way her head spins. They’re sharing the couch while her grandfather sits opposite them in his favourite club chair, and she’s never sat this close to a man who wasn’t her grandfather <em>ever</em>, hasn’t sat this close to another human being in years - she might as well be sitting in his lap - and Ben’s hand sits heavy and possessive on her upper thigh as she feels the blush high on her cheekbones and the blood move thickly through her veins. He is so much larger than she is, she feels almost delicate next to him even sitting, and it’s delicious, how manly and wide and heavy he is, this man who has come to claim him.</p><p>Despite the presence of her elderly relation, he’s seemingly unbothered by the fact that it’s hardly appropriate, the position of his hand, high up on her thigh. When she moves it, discreetly, down so it is closer to her knee, he simply moves it back, every time inching it just that little bit higher, millimeter by millimeter, up her thigh. She struggles to remember that she's a married woman now and that she can relax, knowing her grandfather won’t seek to punish her for his misdemeanor. That’s it’s perfectly right and proper for her husband to teach her in any and all ways he deems appropriate. That she can look to him, now, for cues as to what he expects in terms of her behaviors and discretion.</p><p>The wine has gone to her head, despite the precautions she’d taken, and her head is swimming. She shakes off her grandfather’s offer of another drink, but Ben accepts it on her behalf and places it in her hand, whispering in her ear that she needs to humour her grandfather by at least holding it for a moment. She does, happy to find a way to obey them both, but finds a way to place it off to the side soon after, shifting her weight on the couch to hide her movement – it wouldn’t do to offend her grandfather - even as Ben pulls her seemingly ever closer.</p><p>Distracted as she deals with the drink, she almost doesn’t feel a sharp painful pinch high up on her thigh that is closest to Ben, but she feels the painful prick even despite the heavy silk weight of her dress’s material; she’s about to ask Ben and her grandfather if they’d seen a bee fly by – it’s the only thing that could explain the bite she’d just felt – when Ben seizes her chin in a grip only this side of painful and kisses her, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth as his lips force hers open, his other hand holding her firmly at her neck. It’s intimate, much more intimate than the soft kisses he’d placed on her lips since they’d gotten engaged, and she pulls back almost in shock – her grandfather is sitting right <em>there</em>.    </p><p>Looking over at him though, she’s surprised to find him looking at them approvingly.</p><p><em>'Obedience is a virtue, Aurelia,’ </em>is all he says, and then he’s gone, grandfather, the door latching behind him with a final click.  </p><p>It’s not that it’s not enjoyable, Ben’s lips on hers, his hands seemingly touching every part of her body all at once. It’s just that it’s all moving so fast, especially with the way her head is swimming from the wine. She takes a moment, as Ben’s lips latch on her throat, to reach for the water she’d placed to the side along with the wine she’d discarded, when he suddenly stops, looks up from what he’s doing.</p><p><em>Even better,</em> she thinks, grateful for the momentary pause. <em>They can slow down for a moment; she can clear her head and they can proceed to her suite. Be alone, finally.</em></p><p>The man she finds staring at her, though, while her husband, is not exactly the same man she’d walked into this room with. His eyes, darker than she’d ever seen them, are also fiercer than she’d ever seen, the deep amber-brown so dark it almost looks black, his raven hair falling in his face, and when he hauls her into his lap forcefully, her front to his, her legs spread each side of his heavy thighs, and tells her to open her mouth, she doesn’t even consider questioning it. She trusts him implicitly, always, and he seems to know what he’s about, even as the alien feeling of the material of his suit scratches against the skin of her upper thighs, bared to him as they are by the shifting off her dress.</p><p>She opens her mouth obediently as he instructs her, swallows the pill he places on her tongue without question, though the wine he holds to her lips to chase it down almost chokes her as he insistently pours the entire glass down her throat. She means to ask him to check her thigh where the insect bite throbs, but he’s sliding down the zipper of her dress and she has to concentrate to help him pull down the upper half, slipping the sleeveless bodice down her arms, and she forgets. Forgets where they are, forgets anything but the command implicit in his eyes. She tries to adjust herself in his lap - he's so big and large and hard, his thighs hard beneath her and something else, even harder, which she knows must be his manhood, rubbing up against her - and though it's not comfortable, she wants to move not for comfort but to increase the friction her body instinctively craves.</p><p>Her head is increasingly swimming with every second that passes, and though she knows she’s going to regret it later, it’s pleasant to be pliant and more than half-naked in his arms in her grandfather’s study, it’s pleasant to have him haul her around as if she was naught but a doll, pleasant to have him shift her to the angle he wants while he attacks her lips as he finds ways to use her for his pleasure. Pleasant to sit there, swaying, arching into him, as he bites and kisses every part of her throat as she clings to him, her only anchor she can perceive in her fogged-up brain.</p><p>He’s asking her questions, she thinks, and she does her best to answer them.</p><p>
  <em>Obedience is a virtue.</em>
</p><p>Her lord and husband will know what is best. It remains only to do as he instructs.</p><p>All will be well, so she does her best to answer him in the ways he demands as he attacks her with his lips and his hands and his muscular body, as he demands she vocalize her obedience in the ways he likes to hear.</p><p>
  <em>Yes, she loves him. Yes, she trusts him. Yes, she’s happy to obey. Yes, she likes it, when he does what he wants, takes what he wants. Yes, he can do as he wants. Yes, she wants him to take it, all of it, the way he wants.</em>
</p><p>Since her dress is already sitting at her waist, she’s almost nude, in his lap, and when he rips her chemise completely open before forcing it off her arms, she’s soon sitting, topless on his lap, while he’s still fully dressed in his tux. She’s so woozy she’s almost beyond thinking at this point, but she hears the way he growls, looking at her, feels the way he takes everything from her that he wants. She feels it when he takes her breasts one at a time into his mouth, circling her nipples with his tongue, barely feels it as he bites it with just a little too much force - going to spend my time with these pretty tits later, he growls - but she’s so tipsy she simply flops forward into him without him to guide her. She lets him do whatever he wants to her, tries to please him with her obedience, tries to avoid passing out before she can let him use her the way a husband is meant to.</p><p>His hands are rough between her thighs soon, though, as he forcefully rips her underwear aside and off of her and sticks his fingers in her, and she pulls back, wincing for a moment, before his fingers gentle on the skin no one has ever touched, especially her. She feels it dampen at his touch, slick pooling inside of her as he works his large fingers in and out, first one and then two and then maybe three, though she can’t be sure, she’s so overwhelmed. She doesn’t know what’s happening, only knows that he’s touching him in ways she’s never been touched, and she loves him and she loves his big rough hands on her skin, even here, in her grandfather’s office. She only knows she’s happy to have him manhandle her, rip her clothing physically off her, grateful he takes such care with her. Despite everything, despite her confusion, it’s easy to arch into him, easy to continue to tell him what he wants to hear.  </p><p><em>Yes, she belongs to him, only to him. Yes, she’s his, to do with what he wants</em>, she whispers obediently as he prompts her with his lips on her shoulder, sucking in bruises, and his fingers moving inside her, the alien feeling only heightening the sense of disconnection she feels, as she sits topless in his lap<em>.</em></p><p>‘Can we slow down?’ she manages to ask weakly, hoping to prolong this feeling, hoping, even in her inebriated state, not to provoke him enough that he stops. She thinks she wants to keep his magic fingers inside her forever, no matter how they stretch and burn, buried as they are at his knuckle.  </p><p>‘Relax, princess, I’ve got what you need,’ he says instead and she knows she could trust him, and it soon feels better, as he rubs at that place between her thighs which objectively she knows is her clitoris, his fingers up in her opening, a large thumb on she knows is called her clit.</p><p>He’s so much bigger than her, stronger than her, even sitting with her on top of him, his hands should be much, much too big, pressing into her, and they are, though it helps with the amount of slick he’s pulling out of her. If he would just slow down, she thinks in a fog, she could enjoy this more, participate the way she knows she should, but when she tries to tell him that, he shushes her, tells her he knows what he’s doing. She relaxes at that, trusting that he knows what he's doing, trusting, hoping, needing him to keep going, needing him to keep going, a glorious feeling building inside her, a feeling the friction she feels only slightly tames. </p><p>To be fair, she thinks he knows she’s moments from passing out, her head getting heavier and heavier where it rests on his chest as he pants beneath her, her eyes getting tougher to keep open. When he stands abruptly, she stumbles as he stands her upright, as she trips on her unaccustomed kitten heels, dark against her skin, and her dress and the torn remains of the discarded slip and underwear that lay on the floor. He seems almost gentle then, as he helps her out of the dress, leaves it pooled on the floor, and again, she thinks how grateful she is, that he takes such good care of her.</p><p>He knows she loves that dress; he’d smiled in her ear as she’d leaned over to tell him that at dinner. He’s so firm and gentle she thinks as he pulls her straight up and into him with one arm, his lips again at her throat and his second hand soon buried back in what he insists on calling her cunt. She’s again lost track of how many fingers he’s got wedged in her; the moment she gets moderately comfortable with his hands on her, he adds another finger before she can adjust, wedging it in even if she’s sure it’s not going to fit. His hands are so big, strong, they span the width of her torso, and there might be two of his fingers wedged into her, there might be three, she’s no idea. She likes it, the way her body strains to accept them all the fingers he gives her, likes it, how fascinated he is with her body, as she totters around trying to keep her balance, almost naked in her heels and her thigh-high stockings, her hair mussed by his hands and her lipstick smudged over his mouth.</p><p>It's decadent, how they are in that moment - her almost nude, him still completely dressed - in that library where she'd spent so much time growing up. It's decadent in ways she never could have imagined craving. In the moments she'd imagined what this moment, moments stolen in the short time since her engagement, she had thought of them shut away in her - no, their suite, just the two of them, and she'd imagined him taking off her dress, kissing her, maybe even touching her, though she'd no idea what would happen, exactly, after that. No idea it could be like this, no idea she would feel like this, too warm and too antsy and desperate for his touch as fire raced through her veins and her breath shortened. </p><p>‘Please,’ she’s reduced to begging, hoping he gets the message though she’s having trouble articulating what, exactly, she’s asking for. <em>Please slow down, please make me beg, please enjoy me. Please make me like it</em>. It may be all of that at once.</p><p>He’s long beyond listening though, her Huntsman, desperate to satiate his needs with her body, eager to claim her, mark her, make her his. He’s hushing her now, as the room spins, and she suddenly feels as she’s flying as he walks over to her grandfather’s desk, her slight figure still clasped in his arms, her feet, childlike, still dangling a foot and a half off the floor. When they touch the ground again, it’s just to be spun around before she’s bent forcefully over the desk, her feet scrambling for purchase in her little heels as he leans over her, draping his body over hers, holding her down with the heavy weight of his body, so much larger, hotter, bigger than her own.</p><p>‘Who’s my little wife?’ he asks from over her, into her ear, as she lies bent over the desk in only her heels and stockings, his body, still fully clothed, leaning over her, burning into her.</p><p>‘I am,’ she chokes out, wishing he’d move his hand. She thinks there might be three fingers in her, she can barely move without feeling every inch of them pressing into her, and she wishes he’d spread his hand to reach the aching part of her she can feel throbbing above those thick fingers, as she feels liquid dripping down her thighs. Maybe it’s her slick, maybe it’s her blood the way he's pressing so hard into her - she was warned there might be blood tonight as she fulfilled her marital duties - but the truth is, she’s past caring.</p><p>‘You are what, wife?’ he snarls in her ear and something in her gives over, lets the wine and her love for him take her over where she feels nothing, is nothing but his pretty little toy. Let’s her body and her mind go limp, complaisant, lets him do whatever he wants, wants only to please him in return enough for him to keep him doing what he’s doing. Keep touching her like he’s too desperate to let her go.</p><p>‘Yours,’ she says obediently, and the scary part of it is, it’s true. She is his, though she’d never imagined his taking her would happen this way, never imagined they would consummate their bond in this ways, She knows, though, that it’s in this moment, he will never be anything but hers, and she glories in the possessive way he grips her, leaving bruises in his wake, she’s sure. She can’t wait to press at them in the morning, can’t wait for him to leave more.</p><p>
  <em>Yours. Yours. Yours. </em>
</p><p>‘Mine,’ he snarls again, still holding her down with his hand even as she can hear the other lowering his zipper, hear flesh on flesh as he strokes himself in preparation.</p><p>‘Mine. No matter what they say. My little wife. My sweet little beautiful wife, so fucking tight, so fucking innocent and fucking sweet as I get ready to pound into her, mine to take as I want. Parade you around with hickeys on your neck like you’ve paraded around me all week, wiggling your little ass in my face, your tits bouncing in front of me. Fuck, I wanted to take my time with your sweet little tits, and I swear to god, I'm going to, after tonight. In the meantime, they want me to prove that you’re mine, that I’m yours so I'm going to fucking prove it.’</p><p>She doesn’t understand what he’s saying, really, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, really, doesn’t understand what’s coming over him, her Huntsman. She doesn’t understand why he’s looking at the cameras still set up around the desk, which she realizes to her horror, are recording again, though she’s no idea how long they’ve been doing so. She trusts him not to hurt her, though, not truly, and the dirty words he’s snarling into her ear and the things he’s doing with her body are doing something to her, as liquid fire races through her veins.</p><p>‘Yes, my little wife, you see the cameras now, don't you. Trust me, this wasn’t my fucking idea, either. I wanted to bed my wife properly, in my fucking bed, and don’t doubt I’ll be doing that later. But in the meantime, they wanted us to put on a little show, prove that we’ve consummated the little union they’ve arranged.’</p><p>He slaps her ass, just a little, it barely hurts more than a slight sting, less than anything else he’s done, but the realization of what exactly they’re doing hits her, that they’re being <em>recorded</em>, and she struggles in vain to rise, to get away in spite of herself, even as he holds her down effortlessly with one hand as her feet slip on the floor. He’s got her pinned, so effectively to the desk, in front of the cameras, and she realizes he’s addressing the recording, which he apparently knows has been arranged by their respective grandparents to record the consummation of their union.</p><p>‘They want to make sure. So fucking obsessed with the idea that they’re going to get a little Palpatine-Skywalker to train. A little legacy descendant to rear. So obsessed with my fucking a baby into you; so obsessed with recording the proof of us consummating our marriage, so obsessed with proving how pure you were before I came here to stuff my fucking cock all the way into this pretty little cunt. And that’s what I’m going to do, my little wife, going to stuff it all the way into your pretty pink virgin pussy as it gets so wet and tight for me.’</p><p>He groans, and she feels it, the way it vibrates through him and through her.</p><p>‘Trying so hard to be gentle, go slow, for you, but it’s so fucking hard,’ he whines, sounding almost desperate. ‘So fucking hard not to just fucking <em>take</em> you.’</p><p>She can barely move, pinned as she is, as he leans in to sneer in her ear, his growl so deep she almost doesn’t recognize it.</p><p>‘So, we’ll fucking give them that, won’t me? I’m going to fuck you as many times as we need, aren’t I? Just fucking rail you, just make you fucking take it. Going to fucking breed my little wife until she’s nice and round and complaisant and so fucking pregnant she can’t move as I fuck her again and again. Keep her in my fucking bed and have her please me with my cock in her fucking cunt and anywhere else I fucking please. As many times as it fucking takes and then again and again after that. And then, whether or not we give them the little male heir they’re so desperate for, we’re going to wait until you’re good and ready and fertile and ready again, and then we’re going to go back to fucking the way we want. Do it our way.’</p><p>She’s not sure if she’s crying, though she probably is, sobbing, the tears raining down, as he moves behind her, with reaction, with the realization that her grandfather, and his, had betrayed them. Have led him to betray this connection they’d clearly felt between them. As she realizes that he’s enjoying this only slightly more than she is, though as hard as he is pressing up against her, he clearly enjoys it more than he should, as his words are more and more disjointed, as his hips press up against her, humping her with his body through not yet his cock.</p><p>‘They’re so desperate for stud service apparently. So desperate for us to do our duty. So, we’re going to enjoy it, my little fucking wife, though I know you’re not enjoying it now. I know, I know, sweet pea, it’s uncomfortable and painful and there’s no way to get around that tonight. They actually suggested I drug you – that little pill I slipped you earlier, my pretty little wife – and it was the only helpful suggestion they fucking gave me, given how determined they were I do it this way, where you have to lie there and take it, instead of getting to enjoy how I fucking make you come so hard you see fucking stars. They didn’t care if I hurt you, didn’t care if you didn’t enjoy it the way I need for you to enjoy it, didn’t fucking care if I raped you, just so long as I got you properly impregnated, and don’t worry, Princess, I am going to make them fucking <em>pay</em> for that. But for now, for tonight, we’re going to pretend to play by their rules, be their obedient little proxies, at least for now.’</p><p>She, though, she barely feels anything, physically at least. With the wine swimming in her system, she lays there, complaisant, leaving her no choice but trust him not to hurt her any more than he has to, trusts him to get her ready, feeling the way he strokes her ass, feels her up between her legs, rubbing at her cunt, stretching her with his fingers, readying her, he tells her in-between pants. She feels it suddenly, cold liquid squirted onto her, into her, as his fingers push it in and move in her, stretching her further than she’d ever thought possible, as he keeps talking, to her, to the cameras, to himself, she’s not sure.</p><p>“So, my little sweet thing, I need you to lay there and stay fucking still and take it, take me fucking this sweet fucking heat of yours. Later, I promise, I’ll teach you how to enjoy every little way we can fuck each other, as show what it means to fucking scream as I make you come again and again. As I watch you enjoy it, as I watch you enjoy having me make you beg. After tonight, I’m going to teach you to fuck, properly. Make it up to you, how you won’t get to enjoy this tonight, the way I had planned to make you love it, my cock buried in you. Make you come on my fingers and my cock and my tongue, before I stick that cock so deep into you, promise to teach you to like it, as I fill you up so fucking full you can barely move, my cum so deep and so full inside of you that it drips out you as you breathe.’</p><p>He takes a deep breath as he stands over her, between her, pressing into her.</p><p>‘But not tonight. Tonight, we’re going to do what they demand we do, and I am going to fuck you <em>officially</em> for the fucking record. Make sure you are completely, utterly, fucking <em>legally</em> and fucking <em>officially</em> mine. And if takes fucking you on camera in your grandfather’s fucking office on top of his fucking desk as he listens from outside, if it takes fucking you on film – ‘ and he’s yanking her back by the hair as he presses into her and it hurts, it hurts, it feels as if he’s splitting her open as he pulses into her. It hurts, stings, burns, even as loose and complaisant as she tries to be, even as he shushes her gently, telling her<em> - it’s almost done, it’ll be done in a minute, I’ll make it better, later, stay fucking still for me</em> – even as he holds his hand over her mouth, pressing the thick fingers between her lips, tells her to <em>fucking suck</em>, as he presses her bodily back down so she’s splayed out on the desk again before he continues  ‘– for a film we don’t even get to fucking enjoy, then my little fucking wife, that’s what we are going to do.’</p><p>Splayed out on the desk as she is, she tries her best for him, she really does, as he pumps into her with short, brutal strokes - she’s almost comatose by now, truly, her head spinning from wine and shock and whatever drug he’d given her - as he snarls filth and dirty praise in equal measure into her ear. <em>About how she’s his little cock-sleeve, his little cum bucket, his filthy little fucking slut who wants him so bad but takes him so right, how she’s so fucking hot and so fucking good, how she’s so fucking tight he can barely hold it together. How he wants to fuck her every time he fucking sees her, how he’s going to spend the next week fucking her, how he wants her bouncing naked on his cock with her hands pushing on his chest, and how he dreams of her tied up, blindfolded, on her knees as he fucks her mouth, and how he wants to lick every inch of her until she comes so hard with her heels hanging over his shoulders that she will fucking scream</em> - she has no idea what that means, any of it really, even as it heats something in her, the filth and the praise, but she’s so dizzy she just does her best to relax as she waits, complaisant, for him to finish in her. So, he can do what he needs to do; so that it can be just the two of them again, with no one waiting to interfere.</p><p>He finishes, finally, deep inside her, the heat of his spend hitting the deepest place inside her, and she continues to do her best to lie still underneath him, trying to breathe under his weight, as he continues to pant above her, his groans and mutter and swears - <em>fucking perfect pussy, my own little wife</em> - echoing through his body, and she hears – she actually fucking <em>hears</em> – the click as the remote-controlled cameras are turned off, their lights dimming. She feels it on her skin, the drip of sweat and what might be his tears, making a mess of her back as he’s made a mess of the rest of her, and she feels more than hears him sighs, trying to get up, his cock sliding out of her.</p><p>There’s no point in moving, she’s so physically limp she knows she wouldn’t be able to even if she tried, so she doesn’t bother, just lays there, waiting, as she feels him move around her, pressing a small kiss into her spine, whispering the slightest, softest <em>sorry</em>. He moving around in the bathroom next to the office, before he’s back, wiping a rough cloth between her thighs suddenly, and she flinches away from the cold wet cloth, and he notices, soothing her gently with a hand on her back, stroking it with his hand before his lips replace the cloth and his hands, kissing apologies into her skin.</p><p>She barely notices as he wraps her in a robe, though a voice in the back of her brain wonders where he got it, and she barely moves as he picks her up in a bridal carry, just lets her head loll back and trusts in her large powerful husband his strong shoulders to get her wherever they need to go. She catches a flash of her torn and discarded clothing on the floor as they walk out of the room, and if it were possible to feel rage move through her in her drugged state, she most likely would, but at this point, she’s too tired and too devastated and possibly too broken by her kin’s betrayal to let the feelings move through her.</p><p>Instead, she lies there, in her husband’s arms as he sweeps them out of there. Lies complacent and still and almost comatose in his arms as he takes them out the door that mysteriously opens by itself. Lies there and contemplates how the ruby that flashes in her wedding ring matches the blood she imagines had been trickling down her thighs earlier, even as he carries her out the door of the office and down the hall to their suite. There at least, she hopes, there at least they won’t be subject to the prying eyes she can almost feel watching their every move. There at least, they can trust in each other.</p><p>So, she lies in the arms of her husband and waits and rages and hopes.</p><p>Trusts in her Huntsman to get her home.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A Wife</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's some plot here, if you tilt your head and squint, but mostly it's just dirty smut as Ben teaches Rey how to enjoy being his pretty little wife. </p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time, it’s a slip of a tongue – <em>Huntsman</em> is so close to <em>Husband</em>, after all.</p><p>He’s snarling dirty praise in the shell of her ear when it happens, as he presses her down into the wooden prep table in the pantry closet off the side of the kitchen, only a door separating them from the dining room where their grandfathers are sitting at the dining table, the food already served and getting cold. She’s sure they’re pretending not to hear the commotion happening on the other side of the door, just as she’s sure they’re listening for every little sound. Just as she’s sure they’ve been counting every day since she and Ben married, just as she’s sure that they’re looking for any little indication that their plan is working. Watching her for a sign, watching her appetite, assessing her body, keeping an eye on her figure even as Ben had rested his heavy palm on her stomach as they'd sat at that same table earlier.</p><p>It would enrage her, thinking of it, if it weren’t for the glorious pleasure of having her husband’s thick cock currently buried deep within her body.</p><p>It’s the only thing they have together, each other, each so desperate to hold on to each other, her and Ben, and despite everything, it’s so hot, the idea that they are deliberately making their relations hear it, the act of them coming together, as they allegedly fulfill their family duty to conceive an heir. It’s so hot, she almost doesn’t need the lube Ben had pulled out of his pocket and drizzled over her, in her, and over himself after she’d hiked her skirt up, allowing for him to press all the way into her.</p><p>He still insists though, her Huntsman, on taking care of her, of using the lube in these situations, when he doesn’t have time to get her properly wet, properly dripping the way he loves it. He likes to take care of her that way, does her Huntsman. Make sure it doesn’t her hurt, no matter when, no matter how, no matter where they are when he takes her. She’s still wet from the last time they'd had sex, though, it had been barely an hour, after all, so, between that and the excitement of his large body leaning over her, hand at her throat, she’d barely felt it as his lube-slicked cock had pressed into her, splitting her open, making her take all of it in a single thrust.</p><p>They hadn’t had time to really work at foreplay, hadn’t had the time to prepare given this interlude in the kitchen had been initiated by their elders rather than each other, meaning they hadn’t really had a chance to prepare each other, so they’re cheating, on getting each other ready.</p><p>Not that Ben is ever not ready.  </p><p>He’s panting over her, whispering filthy praise in her ear again – <em>my good little wife, such a filthy fucking whore but only for me, little slut, perfect cocksleeve of a wife, taking me so fucking perfectly, clenching my cock with her cunt, her sweet little tits begging me to play with them later </em> – though, given how neither is supposed to be enjoying this, he’s more careful than he’d like, she’s sure, not to speak it too loudly. Presses his palm over her mouth for her to bite in when she starts moaning too loud.</p><p>She can see her wedding ring, where it gleams against her skin and the wood as she tries desperately to keep her balance, pressed into the kitchen prep table, just as she can feel his, pressing into the skin of her hip, just below where her hipbones press out. She can feel it, his ring, where the ring presses in hard enough to leave bruises. She fucking loves it, when he leaves ring-sized bruises in her skin, loves it, the sense of possession she feels in that moment, and he knows it, takes full advantage of it to turn her on.</p><p>The fact he’s doing it now, while he fucks her at the pleasure of their relations, only reinforces how they make it a priority to put each other above those seeking to control them and their connection. How he manages to subvert their expectations for the two of them, undermines their authority with their seditious thoughts and mutual pleasure. Truly, she’s thought often these last few weeks, she’s been blessed with a prince of a husband, powerful and handsome in person as well as in body.</p><p>Understanding of her needs. Generous, domineering, gentle.</p><p>She’d angered her grandfather at dinner - she’s not sure how – maybe she’d – without thinking - smiled too broadly at her indulgent husband? He’s been angrier lately, less patient than ever before, her grandfather, these last few weeks since the wedding, though she can’t imagine why. Unless it’s simply impatience. They’ve obeyed his every instruction, her and her Huntsman; have been fucking several times a day – in every way possible and in ways she’d never imagined - since their wedding night.</p><p>It never seemed to be enough. For either of them.</p><p>Especially that first week - the honeymoon they’d spent under the watchful eye of both grandfathers - they hadn’t bothered to put on clothes, simply stayed in their suite, never straying far from the marital bed, Ben only putting on robes to collect the food left outside the door. He’d forbidden her wearing anything he hadn’t picked out that week, and since his choices had been limited to extremely scanty lingerie on those rare occasions he’d allowed her to dress at all, they’d naturally spent the week fucking. He’d taught her every way he liked to enjoy her body, before teaching her every way to enjoy his in return, and the more they fucked, the more sexually open he became, as he encouraged her to do the same.</p><p>As per his instruction, she didn’t wear any underwear for the past two weeks unless specifically instructed, and it had seemed to drive him slightly feral, knowing she was bare under her clothes. He’d found new and inventive ways to move her clothing out of the way to get at her - pawing at her tits from her neckline, resting his palm on her ass under her skirts – though since he was picking out her clothes these weeks as well, they tended to be chosen given how easy they were for him to access her skin even as they’d – barely – skirted the line of being appropriate for eyes other than his own.</p><p>She can’t help it, she moans he thrusts into her now, in the pantry, and he slaps her bare ass in retaliation, reminds her to shush. Shut her <em>pretty cocksucking mouth</em>. She almost moans louder; it’s so fucking hot, but luckily, she manages to push it down her throat in time. He’s got her skirts up over her head as he fucks her from behind, having only bothered to take down his fly and take out his cock, so she grabs a mouthful of fabric and uses it to muffle the lewd sounds coming out of her mouth.</p><p>Her grandfather, mere minutes earlier as they’d sat at the dinner table, had told her husband he needed to punish her immediately, for being such an ungrateful brat, and Ben had always been weak in front of a challenge. He’d punish her, he’d told her grandfather, growling, as he’d yanked her up out of her chair at that very moment, dragging her bodily into the kitchen, ripping off her red lace thong in one move – she can see it, lying on the floor by her feet which are barely touching the ground – and he certainly hadn’t been gentle, but he knows how to play her body like an instrument, so even as he was panting as he slammed into her again and again, he makes sure to take her with him, strumming in her ear as he reminds her to whom she belongs.</p><p>He's annoyed, she knows. Annoyed he didn’t have the time to enjoy fucking her, annoyed that she didn’t either.</p><p><em>The only one who gets to decide to punish you is me, my little fucking wife</em>, he’d growled quietly at her as he’d spun her around to press her bodily down, face forward, onto the table, <em>but that’s not what going to happen today. Today, we’re going to play their little game, make them think I’m playing by their rules.  So, you’ll take it, but you’ll like it, you’ll come all over my cock like an obedient pretty little wife, just the way we fucking like it. </em></p><p>She could hear the impatience and the annoyance at the interference from their kin with every word he’d growled into her ear. He didn’t like being challenged.</p><p>He especially didn’t like being told what to do.</p><p><em>When I decide to punish you, my pretty little wife, you know the difference</em>, <em>don't you?</em></p><p>(She did, actually. He’d been irritated she’d worn too loose a skirt last week, so he’d tied her up, her hands tied to the posts of their bed, so that he’d no interference as he’d sucked at her clit so long she’d been reduced to begging, whining for him to let her fucking come. Then he’d left her there while he’d answered some emails before starting all over again. He hadn’t let her come for hours, hadn’t fucked her the way she’d begged for hours after that.</p><p>So, yes, she knew the difference when he decided to punish her; she’d dreamt of it for days. With that in mind, she’d made sure he’d seen how she’d put that skirt in the pile to be sent away before secreting it back into her closet. She'd have to bring it out for special occasions.)</p><p>He’d spend the early period of their marriage teaching her everything her body could do, everything he could do with it, every sensation he could wring from it, every sensation she could wring from his, and he didn’t like his lesson plan being interfered with.</p><p>That first morning after he’d fucked her the first time, he’d been inside of her, fucking her with his fingers, before she’d even awoken, his cock – he liked her to say ‘cock’ when she talked about or talked to, his male member, liked her to say it a lot – pulsing as it rested in the embrace of her outer folds as he’d played absently with her breasts, apparently content to wait for her to wake up so he could take her again. His fingers had soon been replaced with his cock, that morning, as he held her chin firmly in one hand, making her watch in the standing mirror he’d moved to the perfect angle before he’d come to bed the night before.</p><p>She’d been hung-over that morning, her head pounding, and still shaken from the events of the night before, but it hadn’t taken her long to realize how everything he’d done had been for her benefit. He’d explained it all, as he’d thrust into her, in between his telling her how he loved this particular angle as he’d slammed into her and how he loved the feel of her ass slamming into his core. Explained it all as he fucked her the way he’d wanted to, though he’d apologized prettily for how sore he could tell she was. He had to loosen her up, a little, he told her, but she’d get to like it, he promised, and he wasn’t wrong.</p><p>He told her, of his priority the night of their wedding, to keep her safe, to not hurt her more than absolutely necessary. How he’d fed her the wine and meds to keep her pliant in his arms, meant to keep her still so he didn’t hurt her. How much care he'd taken, even in the midst of his desperation to claim, the care in the angle he'd chosen, how he'd been sure to remove her dress beforehand, how he'd taken care to ensure a forceful and quick consummation to fulfill the marriage contract, ensure they had officially claimed each other – all done to ensure her comfort.</p><p><em>Truly</em>, she’d told him as his thrusts grew sloppier and sloppier inside her, <em>she had a prince of a husband</em>. He’d finished within her in seconds.</p><p>She found she didn’t mind it, being his little fuck toy, that morning. He was so considerate about working her open, so considerate with his overuse of lube to keep her wet and loose. Once he had found the right way to fuck her so it didn’t hurt her, or at least not that much (given how big he was, she didn’t think it would ever not be a little much, the stretch just that little bit painful), she’d found she liked the closeness as he panted over her, or behind her, his arms holding her so tightly as he pounded into her. He’d carried her into the bathroom afterward, her first morning as a married woman, watched as she cleaned herself thoroughly before he joined her in the shower. He then toweled her off carefully, his little treasure, his little wife, before carrying her back to bed to sleep off her hangover.</p><p>Yes, she had decided she really didn’t mind it, fulfilling her marital duty in allowing him take his pleasure as he saw fit.</p><p>Women didn’t enjoy sex, Phasma had told her, had warned her before the wedding that she should be grateful for a man who would be as considerate as she’d imagined Ben would be. The important thing was that she fulfill her duty to her husband and her family, Phasma reminded her. She should think of that, her governess reminded her, as her husband took her.</p><p>So, all things considered, she was happy to be his cum bucket – a favourite saying of his -  if that’s what he wanted, given how careful he was to ensure he wasn’t hurting her.</p><p>She soon found, however, that her Huntsman had other things in mind.</p><p>The second time she woke, that morning, they were still naked – he insisted she sleep naked, and she increasingly found she liked it – and he was in her again, his hand snaking around her hip as her hip so that two of his fingers were buried knuckle deep in her as his cock rested snug between her outer lips, pressing up against her, already drenched in her essence.</p><p>The difference, this time, however, as she woke with her husband already on the verge of having sex with her, was in both the positioning of the mirror and the quick disposal of the blankets. Hauling her up as he changed positions quickly so that they were resting up against the pillows, he’d arranged it so that she was situated just as he’d wanted – she loved how big he was, always had – and looking up, she was shocked to see how she could see everything in the mirror as he soon penetrated her, moved into her with shallow thrusts from behind as he made a point of having her learn how she pleased him.</p><p>Resting her head against his shoulders, she was shocked as he forced her head up to watch them, commanding her to keep her eyes open, <em>watch</em>. She was even more shocked as he moved his hand to hold hers to her core, the veins standing out as he stroked her hand through the inner folds of her vagina, wetting them with her essence.</p><p>‘Such a sweet, pussy, isn’t it, my pretty little wife? Such a sweet little hole all wet and warm for me to play with, isn't it, wife?'</p><p>She found he really liked it, referring to her as his wife, liked watching his ring finger as he played with her, liked how the gold glinted against her innermost core, just as he liked talking about her pussy, the pussy that belonged to him, the pussy he liked her to tell him how was wet and tight and sopping for him. He liked, really liked it, as she called him ‘husband’ as he rocked into her, stealing her breath with his thrusts. He seemingly never got tired of that, his name on her lips or his title stealing out of her with whatever little breath he allowed her.</p><p>Nodding, that morning as her husband held her with such care, she was shocked at the electricity as he rubbed through the slick that increasingly coated her core, both from lube he’d already generously applied and perhaps her own arousal. He’d made her watch the entire time, watch them in the mirror he’d set up for her education, he told her, as he taught her to say all the names for her, for him, insist she become comfortable with using them as he liked, even as he continued to thrust shallowly into her.</p><p>Pussy. Cock. Cunt. Dick. Ass. Especially ass.</p><p>
  <em>I fucking love your sweet perfect ass, my little wife. </em>
</p><p>Clit.</p><p>If there was one thing he liked to play with more than her ass, he always told her, it was pretty little clit. He loved it - playing with it, kissing it, sucking at it. Watching her pretty little fingers, so much delicate than his own, rub at it while he watched her fall apart. </p><p>He never neglected it, his fingers always finding their way to it, rubbing over her until he found a spot she’d never noticed, that when he touched made her jump, tension building in her stomach though she’d no idea why, while butterflies burst into flight inside of her. No, he never neglected it, always made sure to press up against her clit with a soft circling thumb as he pumped his fingers in and out of her. Her blood somehow felt thick and hot, pulsing through her veins, her breath heavy, as their world narrowed to the way they rubbed up against each other in the marital bed.</p><p>‘That’s your little clit, my wife,’ he liked to remind her. ‘Yeah, baby, that’s it. The fucking sweet spot.’</p><p>The first time she’d been fully awake and he’d stuck three of his fingers in her vagina she’d jumped and only partially from the slightly painful stretch. It seemed wrong, somehow, having someone slide their fingers into her, in that deep, secret spot. No matter how eager they were to do so, no matter how eager Ben was to play with her, there, no matter how eager he always was to play with her, every part of her, explore and enjoy every part of her, it seemed wrong, how much he liked it, how much she fucking loved it.</p><p>(He especially liked it when she said ‘fuck’, and though she’d blushed, the first hundred times she’d said it, so he’d solved the problem by making her say it over and over again, every time he buried her head in the pillow as he hauled her ass up for him to slide himself into her cunt or pushed her up against the shower wall, one leg up, to fuck her while the water ran cold.)</p><p>It was important she learned to enjoy it, he always told her, important that she learned to love her husband’s massive cocking fucking her all the ways he loved to fuck her, important she learned to love him making her come the way he wanted to, every time he saw her.</p><p>He was so considerate, she knew, with his reassurance that this was natural, this was right, to enjoy each other, for her to love the way he used her body because otherwise, she would have found it hard to drown out the voices in her head. It was hard, to get over her modesty, even with her husband, and it had to be wrong, how much she enjoyed this, the physical aspect of being married.</p><p>It had to be wrong, how fucking wet she got, the sounds of squelching as he pushed his fingers in and out of her seeming so obscene, no matter how much he told her – she certainly agreed - that it was only natural, for a husband to touch his wife every way he pleased, any and every which way that pleased him. Any and every which way he could find to please her. Her pleasure belonged to him, after all, just as she did, and if he wanted to find new and innovative ways to make her scream, that was certainly his prerogative, certainly his <em>fucking</em> right, he made sure to remind her.</p><p>So, that first time he’d gotten three of his massive fingers in her, as he’d touched a place deep inside of her with them, seemingly finding a magical spot inside her, he’d had had to hold her down. The only reason she’d agreed to try touching herself, later, was due to the fact he’d insisted – <em>a good wife obeys</em> – just as the only reason she’d agreed to show him how she could play with the toys he’d had her experiment with while he’d watched later - while she’d blushed so deeply she’d felt as though her face was on fire – was because he insisted.</p><p>
  <em>A good wife learns how to please her husband.</em>
</p><p>When he’d decided he had to ‘eat her out’, kiss that ‘magical pussy’ and stick his tongue in her while he wrapped his lips around her clit, he’d had to tie her down – it had been the first time but hardly the last – to keep her from kicking him in the head in reaction, as she’d lost all control of her body as she gave in to the sensation, so overwhelmed by the glory and the sin.</p><p>
  <em>A good wife gives her husband everything.</em>
</p><p>There’s no finesse now though, as he fucks her against this kitchen prep table, only a race to the end so they can go and eat their dinner in peace, but still, he’s careful to rub her off with those massive fingers, nonetheless, so she can finish with him as he fucks her. As he slams her so deep into the table she can feel the bruises she’ll have later from the way the edge of the wood bites into her skin.</p><p>She still comes so hard she sees stars.</p><p>Technically, they are following orders, every time they fuck, hell, every time they touch each other. She’s lost track, of how many times, how many places, they’ve fucked each other. It’s different and yet comforting every time. She’s lost track of how many times he’d made her come, how many times she’d pleasured him, how many times he’d grunted his pleasure as he’d finished as deep inside as he had that first night, painting her insides with his thick, hot sperm.</p><p>And so, she can’t help it, as she promises, as always, to obey her husband – he loves it so much when she reminds him of that, her promise to obey  – that she blurts out the way she thinks of him.</p><p>Her husband.</p><p>And also the Huntsman – her liegeman – the one person who’d promised her eternal loyalty and love.</p><p>Promises him her loyalty in return and calls him by name.</p><p>And so it comes out as she moans her pleasure into the sturdy varnished oak of the kitchen table. As he groans over her with every thrust and every kiss, hot and heavy at her back. As he uses her the way he’s meant to, as his personal fuck toy, as she uses him in return, fucks his cock for her pleasure, her walls pulsing around him, her body clenching, desperate to keep him in her.</p><p>“Ben- yes, fuck-”</p><p>He’s almost reached the edge of his control, his thrusts increasingly erratic and sloppy, his breath panting in her ear, his hands, bruising on her pale, delicate skin as he hauls her into him as he fucks her, as he uses her body for his needs. He’s almost reached the end of his limit, she can tell, he’s seconds from letting go, even as the dark promises and filthy questions spill from his lips as he takes his pleasure from her body, urges her to seek her own. She can always tell, as he gets close, as he has her remind him again and again how much she loves this, loves him, and has her remind him of how good he is to her. How much he loves taking care of her in return.</p><p>“What am I, little wife? Who’s up in your pretty wet pussy right now? Who’s making you feel so good? Fucking you good and hard every way you <em>fucking</em> <em>need</em>?”</p><p>And she’s seconds away as well, from coming apart under him for the umpteenth time since she’d said her vows to obey and pleasure him, and it feels so, so, good, to just let go, at the moment, to let him take her over with his cock splitting her open, bruising her to the core.</p><p>“Hu- Huntsman,” she sobs into the wood as she breaks, and she feels it, as he comes in her, again, his open mouth cry, silent and wet against her skin, as he slumps over and onto her, and she sighs, content.</p><p>Basks in the care of his command.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. A Promise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please be aware of the discussion of fertility issues in this chapter before moving forward.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A Promise</em>
</p><p>It’s an old story and not a particularly original one in the way that some old stories are. It’s an old story, and a predictable one. The problem starts, as it often starts, with a pair of grandfathers.</p><p>“They miscalculated, didn’t they, my little wife?’</p><p>The Huntsman whispers their shared displeasure into her neck one afternoon, balls deep in her as he is as they watch the shadows move from where they are safely ensconced under the sunshade. It’s always been one of her favourite places, under the sunshade where she can look out and watch the living things grow, and he always enjoyed taking her there. Enjoys watching the natural light move as it’s reflected in her eyes.  </p><p>“They didn’t think it through, our esteemed elders. What it would look like, me and my little witch, safely mated and free to do as we like.”</p><p><em>And, no</em> she thought, <em>no, they had not.</em> Or maybe they’d just underestimated the potential of their connection, that bond that had blossomed between her and her glorious husband. He’s moving in her again, and the power and the pleasure of it are so intense that she has to turn her head and bite down on his neck as she rests head on his shoulder to maintain some semblance of thought, but she considers it later.</p><p>To be fair, she reflects later, it would have been impossible to predict the bright fire that had erupted the moment Ben had taken her hand in his. It burns so bright, burns so fierce, burns through every thread of their lives, destroying everything they’d ever thought they’d ever known, forced bonds of iron all its own, between her Huntsman and herself. Destroys everything in its path that isn’t that.</p><p>Her loyalty and sense of duty and obligation to her family legacy scorched by the way she and Ben cleave together, even as her trust in her grandfather had been destroyed the night of their wedding, as she’d realized she’d only ever been a means to an end for him. That he’d only ever seen her as a vessel, nothing more, in which to deposit his hopes for a male heir to carry on his legacy. It had taken her months to come to terms with what that meant for her, for her future, for her relationship with her husband, and for their plans for moving forward.</p><p>Months to come to terms with that, and the realizations that had followed. Months to grieve. Months to rage.</p><p>“Your grandfather didn’t think what might happen, did he, after I took his pretty virgin princess and made you my fucking Queen, my precious sovereign, did he, my little wife? Any more than my grandfather considered what might happen after he gave me something more interesting to fuck than women more concerned with his patronage and his money than with my cock. Don’t think they thought it through, our trusted elders, what might happen, when they had you take over possession of me, when they gifted me something infinitely more precious than their never-ending promises of power and legacy.”</p><p>And then he’d smiled, and she’d felt it, the imprint of it, against her cheek where it rests against him, as he continues his thrusts into her from where she sits on his cock, cuddled safe and warm and cherished into his chest.</p><p>His.</p><p>His precious wife, the first safe anchor, he’d told since that day he could barely remember, that day when his grandfather had come to claim him from his parents. He didn’t know what had happened to them, he’d told her, one late night, tucked into their bed, his eyes once again soft and quiet. Only that his father had kissed him goodnight after his mother had tucked him in and he’d awakened in his grandfather’s house the next morning.</p><p>He thinks he’d been almost three at the time.</p><p>Some nights, after long, long days in his grandfather’s home, he’d wondered what had happened to them, his parents. Wondered if they’d ever come looking for him. Whether they’d cared enough to miss him. Whether they were even still alive. Wondered what he’d done to deserve the new life, the new expectations he’d found thrust upon him.</p><p>His grandfather had assured him that they had never loved him, his parents, and for a long time, he’d believed that, believed what he’d been taught in his grandfather’s home – that if you don’t keep something safe, it is only because you’ve never really valued it – but as he’d grown a little older, he’d wondered.</p><p>His memories had faded for the most part, over the decades, but he still had flashes from time to time. Of a man, strong and gentle, with an easy smile, lifting him aloft, high above his head, to play airplane. Of a beautiful young woman – kind, sad and yet also fierce. Of feelings – of warmth and happiness and safety, as she’d held him, as she’d tucked him away, safe every night.</p><p>How was it possible, he’d wondered, from the earliest age, that he could have remembered all that and that they still could have been as unloving as his grandfather had always claimed?</p><p>Just as with Rey, he’d clung to his grandfather for so long, his only anchor in a chaotic world, though they’d never been as close as Rey had once considered she and her grandfather to be. Always more temperamental than Rey’s grandfather, always more violent, Lord Vader’s home had never been a safe harbour, any more than had his relationship with Enric Pryde, his tutor, and for a long time his only contact with anyone other than his grandfather’s servants and those seeking his favour.</p><p>It may have been a safe home, with everything mater need tended to, but it had been cold, and lonely, and one whose master had been prone to fits of rage.</p><p>Their upbringings are in some ways so similar, and yet also so different, Rey concludes, and she wonders at the coincidences of that, wonders at the ways their grandfathers had been so keen to set this up. It matters little, though, she reminds him. What matters is what happened the moment they met, the way the bond between them had flared so violently, scorching away all else in its path.</p><p>What matters is what they build together, she reminds him, even as they grow closer every day, cling to each other in love and desperation and relief. What matters is the bond they share, the way they reinforce it with love and with each other.</p><p>And they do so love reinforcing their bonds of love with each other.</p><p>“They miscalculated so many ways, but you’re the only slut I want to fuck, my precious wife, and since I’m the only one who gets the privilege of fucking you, I’d best keep my little cocksleeve satisfied while I fill her full of me. Is that right?”</p><p>He adds an especially deep thrust into her, to emphasize that statement, but he doesn’t really expect her to answer him, she knows. Just wants her to experience him becoming one with her, to remember, to feel, to <em>know</em>, that she’s his, that he’s hers, and that he feels it too. That they’ve bound themselves together, in this life, and that they’ll find a way forward together.</p><p>So no, he doesn’t expect her to answer him, at least not with words.</p><p>Any more than he expects her to answer him, later that night, after dinner, as they’re fucking in the private suite of their rooms.</p><p>And really, how could she, on her knees on the pad he’d put down for her, his cock so far down her throat she’s only able to breathe due to the constant practice they’d engaged in. It’s thick and heavy and hot on her tongue, his perfect cock, the ridges of his skin wrapped in the velvet and heat, and it burns so perfectly, against the ridges of the roof of her mouth, just as it fits so perfectly down the length of her throat.</p><p>He’s still talking her through it - <em>my sweet, docile little pet </em>– just as she knows he likes to. It turns him on, telling her all the things he likes to do with her, plans on doing to her later. He loves it how she drips as she kneels on that pad on the floor, as she lets him fuck her mouth as she kneels in front of him in the matching thong and bralette he’d picked out for her earlier, the virginal white a vivid contrast to her skin. It especially turns him on, the way she gets so wet as he tells her these things, just as he loves it, how she can’t help but get so wet, so ready for him, shifting to chase the friction she’s denied from this angle, even as she drips with anticipation, just from the joy of pleasuring him.</p><p>Sinking to her knees at his command earlier, she’d unzipped him and freed his cock from his pants, so he’s still fully dressed, other than the way she’s his naked member in her mouth. It hadn’t been fully hard, when she’d first started, though she’d never know that now, given how rigid it is in her mouth, as it presses down her throat. His hands are buried in her hair, the cufflinks she’d gifted him as a wedding tribute catching in the strands winding around them in a proprietary fashion, the neat chignon she’d fashioned before dinner already destroyed.</p><p>Her Huntsman had been so polite, so proper, at dinner earlier, that she should have known it would lead to this, though it’s hardly his fault entirely, given how she’d felt him up through his pants as she’d passed him the peas with her other hand. He had simply looked so appetizing, much more than the bland food that they ate daily, and given how, frankly, bored she’d been with her grandfather’s never-ending lectures on all that was currently wrong with the world.</p><p>But then, her husband always looks so tempting, and it had been all too easy to have a little fun with him. Her hand in his lap under the cover of the dining room tablecloth, her glance catching his as she’d licked her lips before sucking a drop of sauce off her thumb where it had dripped in an errant fashion.</p><p>Her smile innocent as he’d hissed quietly in reaction.</p><p>Her grandfather had demanded Ben’s opinion on a random topic, seconds later, disappointed as always when the attention was on something other than his genius, and it had taken longer than Rey had wished, for Ben to get back to her. That moment had been broken, the magic they’ve been weaving already dissipated in the tense air of the family dinner, and Rey had sulked impatiently, though she’d tried not to be obvious about it.</p><p>The advantage of being ignored by her grandfather, mostly, was that she’d been free to ponder the dilemma in which she and her beloved husband had found themselves.</p><p>Their elders had been impatient, antsy, lately, and she knows from the hints that they drop more and more impatiently, that it’s due to her failure to do her duty, conceive. So keen to reassure Ben that he was doing his best, to impregnate his wife, to plant his seed in her, neither grandfather showed any such consideration for her, and they were increasingly open concerning their disappointment in her failure to gestate their long-anticipated legacy heir. They were sure she wasn’t a failure, her grandfather had deigned to reassure her, but given all they’d put into this process, everything they’d done to ensure her future happiness, it was understandable that her failure to hold up her end had been a heavy blow.</p><p>It had not been that long, realistically, not even a year, Ben had mentioned off-handedly, several nights ago when they’d discussed bringing in a fertility doctor to examine his wife, but they’d been insistent. He’d given in eventually, warming Rey’s heart as he’d squeezed her hand softly, declared with his eyes on her face how his precious wife did indeed deserve only the best in medical care.</p><p>They’d agreed then, did Ben and her grandfathers, to having the specialist - a Dr. Armitage Hux, Ben told Rey later, the best in the business – come in to inspect her and determine the nature of her problem and how best to fix it. She was nervous, naturally, though reassured when Ben promised he’d be with her the entire time. <em>It would inappropriate to have a strange man alone with my wife in that position</em>, he’d pointed out to the grandfathers. And so they’d agreed.</p><p>Ben had always been protective of her, Rey had noted, and this had been no different, his care and concern that she not be left in a compromising position with this man she’d never met, even if his family had long been in her grandfather’s circle. It warmed her heart how he had held her hand as he and her grandfather had discussed it, reassured her that whatever needed to be done would be done. Even as her grandfather had blathered on about women and their ‘issues', he’d simply been there. For her.</p><p>Remembering that at dinner, Rey had been sure to take extra care with the strawberry she’d been eating – her favourite dessert – dipping it extravagantly in the whipped cream piled on the side of her dish, licking off the sweet foamed cream with tiny kitten licks meant only for her husband’s eyes before she taking a lustful bite. She’d always enjoyed food, enjoyed the feel of the texture, the taste, the aroma, on her tongue, and she loved how he watched her as she gave in to the sensation. Luxuriating as her senses took in every aspect of the feeling, as she always luxuriated in every sense and feeling they explored together.</p><p>It seemed to have driven him absolutely mad with lust, watching as she relished in every drop of flavour on her taste buds, observing her as she gave in to her appetite for food as she always gave in to her appetite for his touch. It was something she deeply appreciated at the moment, her ability to drive him over the edge, as he shuddered and groaned so deeply above her, even as he used her mouth for his own pleasure.</p><p>It’s messy and intense, as he fucks her face, there’s drool and sweat and pre-cum dripping down her face, making a mess of her chest and face, and she’s grateful for the care he took helping out of her cocktail dress earlier. She’s grateful for this moment they have between them, and she loves it so much, taking him in hand, taking him in her mouth, that it’s hard to comprehend, let alone articulate.</p><p>“Fucking take it, my little wife, you like that don’t that?”</p><p>He’s panting above her, and it’s so hot, how he can’t control himself around her, how he loses all control as he pants and whines and whimpers and groans above her. He has no idea what he’s saying, she’s sure of it, as she sucks him off, has no idea of anything but the feeling of his balls in her tiny hands and his cock between her lips, and he’s completely lost, at this moment. She has him in the palm of her hand, as she has him the heat of her mouth, and he’d do anything for her, at this moment, not that he wouldn’t do anything for her at the tiny wave of her hand.</p><p>Fuck, she loves sucking him off.</p><p>“Love sucking my cock, don’t you, Rey? Fucking love it, don’t you?”</p><p>He’s close, she knows it, from his increasingly erratic thrusts in her mouth and the way the intensity of the sensation of him is growing in intensity, knows it from the smell of him, as it flows down her throat, knows it from the way his thick thighs shake as he tries to maintain control, knows it from the way his hands clench in her hair, squeezing at her skull, trying desperately to hold her still. She’s trying to nod as she keeps her rhythm, and she looks up to look up at him, make eye contact as he gazes down at him, and they lock eyes and he’s erupting in her, the stream of him hitting the back of her throat with such force she has to fight not to retch as she gags, while he shudders above, shouting his pleasure at the ceiling.</p><p>Yes, she loves blowing him, her husband; it’s so fucking hot.</p><p>She feels him slump back against the wall in relief, desperately seeing its support, before he’s wrenching her up by her arms, his hands encircling her arms with such ease, pressing bruises she’s sure to find tomorrow. She’s not sure how she loses her underwear by the time he throws her on the bed, barely two feet from where they were, just knows she ends up on the bed with one leg on his shoulder as his knees hit the floor, as he finds the perfect angle to wrench her open enough to get his head buried between her thighs, his lips on her clit, sore from being neglected for so long, which throbs in need.</p><p>Grabbing the slats of the headboard desperately as she tries to anchor herself to the bed, she can barely breathe as he goes to work on her, even as the unholy mess of his sperm and sweat mingles with her spit as it dries on her chest, on, in, under her bra, down her face and throat and chest, as it dries rapidly on her skin even as her body heats with lust.</p><p>Ben’s still moaning above her, though this time he’s doing it in-between licks at her clits as he pumps her open with one hand and holds her hips down with his other.</p><p>“Fucking, perfect little whore of wife, taking me every way I want, when I fucking want, fucking sucking at me with her pretty little mouth, playing with me with her pretty pink tongue, fucking swallowing me with that tiny little mouth hers.”</p><p>She can’t concentrate on words by now, she’s too far gone, as he pushes her the edge faster than she’d thought possible, doing his best to throw her over as quickly as possible, his tongue flicking at her clit like a hummingbird as he holds her down with one massive hand.</p><p>“Fuck, I love this pretty pussy wife. Fucking love seeing my cock split it open, fucking love it as it drips for me. Going to make you come and come and come, till you forget anything but my name, before I tie you to the bed, spreadeagle, fucking blindfold you with this tie you bought me so that I can fuck you properly, your legs around my waist and my hands wherever the fuck I want.”</p><p>And it is so evocative, she can see it, can see them, can picture what would look like, almost sees it as an out of body experience, and it’s enough, the dirty, filthy, pornographic vision of them, just enough, to push her over the edge, screaming.</p><p>She’s coming down, limp in his bed, at his mercy, in their bed, and she can’t hear much other than the blood pumping through her veins, but she feels it, as he climbs over her, holding her down with his body, so much larger than hers. Feels it as he pins her arms up, as he lowers himself carefully to rub his entire body, mostly still dressed, onto hers, so she can glory in his weight as he whispers in her ear between open-mouthed kisses.</p><p>“Think you got off easy, did you, my wife? Think I’m going to let you just take that and let you sleep, think I’m not going to get you all wet again, get you all hot again so that I can stick my cock in that pretty pink pussy, make you fucking beg as I mount you?”</p><p>He’s rubbing up against her, making a mess of his clothes with the mix of his liquids, and hers, claiming her with the mess of them as he reaches for her hands, ties them to the bed with her bra that he’s somehow removed while she’d lain there in a lustful daze.</p><p>“I know you’re tired baby, can see it, know that one took a lot out of you. You want to sleep, I know, want to rest. But you know that’s not how that’s going to go, don’t you?”</p><p>Rips his tie off, forces her head up to tie on the makeshift blindfold, his hands somewhat rough and yet somehow gentle as he ties it around her eyes.</p><p>“Because I know that’s not what you really want, do you?”</p><p>Her eyes open, though she sees nothing under the blindfold, knowing what he wants, knowing how he wants this to go.</p><p>Knows how she wants it to go, too, as her body, limp and overstimulated, somehow flushes yet again with need.</p><p>“No, Huntsman. Make me beg, please, Husband. Make me want it.”</p><p>He smiles against her skin as his head rests on her belly, just above her pubic bone, and she marvels again, at how soft he is.</p><p>“There’s my good little wife, asking for what she wants. You know what you want, don’t you baby? Know how to beg for it.”</p><p>She arches under his hands, tied as she is to the bed, trying desperately to rub up against him, get him to give her what she needs.</p><p>“Husband. Please.”</p><p>“Whiny little wife,” he purrs, happy, as he checks the knot on the blindfold again. “Fucking perfect little wife.”</p><p>He’s checking all the restraints, making sure they’re not too tight, but tight enough she can’t slip them, checking the blindfold, making sure it hasn’t slipped, as she lies back, relaxes in the soothing dark and the smell of him as her other sources heighten.</p><p>“Love having you under me, love having your hands and your lips on me, my little wife, and we’ll do that later, won’t we? Have your little hands free so you can play with me, and play with yourself? So you can play with those pretty breasts the way I like while I watch, while I make you moan? Have your hands free so you can play with yourself when I tell you to? We’ll do that later, won’t we, my wife?”</p><p>She’s nodding eagerly, though she can’t see him, but she can tell from the sound of his voice what he wants, how he wants her to express how eager she is, even as he continues.</p><p> “But for now, you can just lay there and feel. As a treat.”</p><p>The bed moves as he gets up and she can hear it, as he removes his ruined clothing in record time, as he moves back to lay next to her, feels it as his hands and lips and every part of him ghosts over her body, never quite where she wants, never quite as firm as she needs, never quite as long as she wants.</p><p>“We’ll talk about what I need later.”  </p><p>They may talk about it later, she’s no idea, really, when she reflects on the night, as she lays in the tub in his arms, watches as he lifts one arm to clean it with the loofah before repeating the process with her other arm, as the bubbles and the scent and the warm water, only verging on hot, soothes them, working to make her even more pliant than had their sex earlier. She’s like a doll, a pliant, exhausted little thing in his arms, as she lays in that bath with him, warm and soft and content as he cleans her body so carefully, as he pours cool, soothing water from the nearby glass down her throat, raw from how he’d fucked her face, sore from where he’d had her scream, rough and dry from how much he’d had her beg.</p><p>“Mmm,” is all she says.</p><p>Content.</p><p>“Not to worry, my pretty little wife. I’ll take care of everything.”</p><p>Resting her head again against his chest, she smiles, caresses his soapy arms as they rest around her.</p><p>“We’ll take care of it, together, my love.”</p><p>And she trusts that they will.</p>
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